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COPlfRICHT DEPOSrr. 



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SIEGE OF VICKSBURG 



Songs of A Man Who Failed 



The Poetical Writings 



HENRY CLINTON PARKHURST 



Ave, Caesar, Imperator! Morituri te salutant 



The Woodruff Press 
Lincoln, Nebr. 



,^^^ 






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Copyright 1921 by 

HENRY CLINTON PARKHURST 

Lincoln, Nebraska 



SEP 24 71 



This book will be sent, prepaid, to any address in the world, 
on the receipt of $2.50. The Woodruff Press, Lincoln, Neb:-. 

^Cf.A624506 



CONTENTS 



A CONFESSION OF FAILURE 
Page 

Judith 7 

In Custer's Honor 30 

On Prairies Wild 35 

Border of the Under World 65 

The March of Orellana 76 

City of Kallahootah 86 

IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

Camp McClellan 93 

Solomon's Lament 95 

Off to the Wars 95 

Holofernes at Zidon 96 

Musings of a Seer of Atlantis. . 96 

Light Love in Bohemia 99 

The Ivy 100 

' Two of a Kind 100 

Disaster at Shiloh 101 

Glorietta Mountains 101 

Philosophy of Cortez 102 

Camoens 1 02 

Maceo to the Cubans 103 

Passing the Golden Gate 103 

The Carib Chiefs Daughter 104 

My Chosen Theme 105 

A Reflection 106 

Sunday Night at Shiloh 106 

The Ocean Shore 108 

Lo! The Bridegroom Cometh... 108 
Llano Estacado Fifty Years Ago. 109 

Desolation of Tyrus 103 

A Scene at Shiloh 110 

Alotipique Ill 

A Rover's Adieu 112 

Ruling Motives 113 

The World War 113 

The Cowboy Said 114 

Clearing the Coast of Texas... 114 

The Temple of Patience 116 

To the Planet Mars 116 

The "New Day"— 1920 116 

Beulah Land 116 

Ruins of Palenque 116 

"Back to the Farm" 117 

Return of the Dough Boys 117 

A Wisconsin Scene 118 

Walt Whitman Verse 118 

Procrustean Days 118 



Page 

John Brown's Reverie 119 

The Pious Grafter 119 

Byron 119 

Attila 120 

The Villain Died 120 

The Fate of Bruce Imlay .. . .120 

Winter in Florida Straits 121 

The Genius of Good Nature 121 

The Minstrel's Admonition 122 

Pilgrim Father Tercentenary. . .122 
St. George's Channel On a Clear 

Day 123 

The Big Book 124 

Woodrow Loves the Limelight .. 124 

Charlotte Corday 12.^ 

After Shiloh 126 

A Soldier's Life T 126 

To a Social Club Far Away... 127 

Buying Titles 127 

The Delusion of Cabrillo 128 

A Stage Chorus 12S 

Concentrated Lie 129 

When a Widow's Very Fair 129 

The Tomb of Byron 130 

The Main Guy 130 

Richard Third 131 

Isles of Fonseca 131 

Kenilworth 132 

A Large Volume 132 

The Pedagogue's Dream 133 

Galveston Isle 133 

In Cuban Waters 134 

Not Homeless 134 

Sun Worship Shores 134 

Danton 135 

A Youthful Threnody 135 

France 136 

Mexican Border in 1916 136 

November, 1920 136 

In >aris- _^^ . 137 

My Mother . .'. : 137 

Our Planet's Voyage 13'7 

Philosophy of Lucretius 13S 

To Hortense 138 

Guatemozin's Appeal to Mexitli.139 

Bivouac in Tennessee 139 

Place de la Concorde 140 

Arc de Triomphe 140 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Madre D'Oro 140 

Joan of Arc 141 

The Old Conquestador 141 

He Had Some Friends 141 

Cortez and Pizarro 142 

The Poetaster 142 

Dark Days in the Jerseys 143 

Exultation of Pizarro 143 

Lansing and Bryan 144 

Dark Days in Bohemia 145 

Eve Before Corinth 145 

Battle of luka 146 

Arc of the Covenant 146 

Philosophy of Pizarro 147 

Tecumseh 147 

Our Message of Peace 148 

Brother-in-Law to the Govern- 
ment 149 

Death Wound of Cordova 149 

Lost Empires 150 

Valley Forge 151 

Mount Tacoma 151 

Napoleon in Obscurity 152 

Adios Bohemia 153 

Rosecrans at Corinth 154 

The American Emph-e 155 

Spain 155 

The Sweet South 155 

Burial of De Soto 156 

Woman in Public Life 157 

Daniel Webster 157 

Central America 158 

One Land 159 

A Frontier Sabbath 159 

Guatemozin's Death Plaint 160 

Ariana 161 

Bohemia's Foe 161 

Dragon Canon 162 

Column Vendome 163 

Camp at Lake Providence 164 

Dakota Snows 164 

Camp On the Coldwater 165 

"Race Suicide" 165 

Caesar 165 

Napoleon the Great 165 

Tamar 165 

The Dismal Rule 166 

The Grief of De Leon 166 

A Commentary 166 

Voyage of Magellan 167 

National Hymn 167 

The Minnesota Massacre 167 



Page 

An Additional Pleasure 168 

The Old Paper Mill 168 

San Francisco Sand Lots 168 

Heroes 168 

War In Louisiana 169 

Man With a Jaw 169 

An Old Trunk 170 

Almeida Sailing for India 170 

The Soldier's Creed 171 

Philosophy of Sinaloa 171 

Hobo's Delight ...171 

Mirabeau 172 

An Oklahoma Corkscrew 172 

"She Married a Title" 172 

The Singer 173 

A Feminine Query 174 

The Talk Fiend 174 

The World's Unrest 175 

Horse-and-Horse 175 

Poor Devil 175 

Reign of the Pedagogue 175 

Countess Dubarry 176 

Prince of Indus 176 

Our Saints and Martyrs in Ja- 
pan 177 

Ho ! For Vicksburg 177 

My Forbidden City 177 

The Grave of Brigham 178 

•lulian 178 

Patrick Henry 178 

Despair of De Ayllon 179 

"Absent Minded Beggars" 181 

Jean Paul Jones 181 

Clemenceau Transposed ISl 

The Philippines 181 

In Line of Battle 182 

Written in a Garret 183 

A Millionaire's Reverie 184 

Only Some Soldiers 184 

The Doomed Poet 185 

Reverie of Columbus 186 

The Sage of Siskiyou 186 

Nautical Discipline 187 

Life IS) 

A Poet's Criterion ISO 

The Vow 190 

The Substitution Evil 190 

Ouida 190 

Very Blank Verse 101 

A California Love Song 191 

The Fall of Vicksburg 192 

Careful Piety 193 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Clio's Response 193 

The Gold Hunter 194 

Satan Rebuking Sin 196 

Salutation 196 

Night in the Tropics 196 

Bedouin 197 

Once More to the Camps 198 

Proverbial Philosoi)hy 198 

Closing for Battle 200 

Percival 201 

Home at Last -. . . .201 

Bohemia 201 

Death Speech of Robsrt Emmet. 202 

Where Fortune Smiles 204 

The Ozark Hills 204 

A Youthful Woe 204 

Pyrrhus the King 205 

His Only Wealth 206 

Kenesaw 206 

Rival Chiefs 207 

A California Scene 208 

Refrain in Dixie 208 

Combat L'Outrance 208 

Halcyone 208 

Iowa Autumn 209 

Byron, Burns and Poe 209 

A Chat With Phidias 210 

Retrospection 210 

The Difference 210 

Lucile 211 

Soldier of Fortune 211 

A Sentimental Dream 211 

The Far South 211 

Carinus 212 

A Cereal Story 212 

American Soldiers in France. . .212 

The Demon "If" 212 

Peace Apostles 213 

Columbia's Ptah 213 

Charging a Rifle Pit 213 

Jay town Champion 213 

A Robber Knight 214 

The Wild Sunflower 214 

A Pirate Song 215 

Deadly Toltec Dope 215 

The Mexican Peon 215 

Assault in Force 216 

Written for "Judith" 217 

The Way It Is 218 

A Rover's Fancy 218 

Socorro 218 

Southern California 219 



Page 

Defeat of Narvaez 219 

Lexington 220 

A Good Word 220 

Self Control 220 

A Campaign Incident 221 

King of the American Idiots. . .222 

Pine Hill 223 

Maximilian and Carlotta 224 

Cordova On Mexican Seas 225 

"Forget It" 225 

Massalina 226 

Star of Empire 226 

Commands to Me 226 

Polite Warfare 227 

A Hopeless Case 228 

The Sirens 228 

Under a Tree 228 

Columbia River 229 

A Blest Relief 229 

Another "Drive" 229 

More Truth Than Poetry 230 

"You'll Never Get Rich If You 

Do Hard Work" 230 

Montezuma 231 

The Common Lot 232 

"Ground — Arms !" 232 

"Go Down in History" 232 

Death of Gen. McPherson 233 

Mesianico Amerikaniski 233 

Secession Ordinance of Manila. .233 

Olonois the Buccaneer 234 

Highlands of the Hudson 235 

The Landslide 235 

Andersonville 236 

The Geisha Girls 237 

Only a Dream 237 

Under the Black Flag 237 

Overland by Rail 238 

Arulla 238 

The Filibuster's Memory 239 

Our Brother Man 239 

Gai-field 240 

The Poor Man's Comfort Gone. .240 

Rodeo 240 

San Francisco Lines 241 

In Millen Stockade 241 

The Scientific Miner Man 242 

Alexander 243 

The Human Hog 244 

Wasted Efforts 244 

Undecorated 244 

The Dreams of the Starving 245 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Ruins of Copan 245 

His Next AchiGvemt-nt 245 

An Old Timer 246 

The Stranger 246 

Bias of Priene 246 

A Discontented Minn- 247 

Near the Shoals 247 

A Confederate Inferno 248 

At the Altar 249 

The Things We Didn't Do 249 

Dan Rice 250 

"King of Terrors" 250 

Almagro's March On Chile 250 

El Montecito 251 

Mermentau 251 

The Author's Epitaph 252 

Isthmus of Darien 252 

A Country Hotel 253 

To Hon. Robert Ould 253 

"Everybody Have Something". .253 

Born to Misfortune 254 

Natal Reverie 254 

Raleigh and Queen Bass 255 

Old Times in Utah 255 

An 111 Voyage 255 

Return of the Veterans 256 

Prairie Degenerates 256 

Nietzsche's View of Theology. .257 

Superstition 257 

Pyrrhus 257 

Shakespeare Improved 258 

Descendant of the Cave Man... 258 
Commandant of Andersonville. .258 

At the Gate 259 

The Parent's Injunction 259 

The Royal Cottonwood 259 

The Filibuster's Problem 260 

End of the Civil War 261 

Rolling Stone 262 

A Divorce Case 263 

A Mining President 263 

Corsair Song of the Shipping 

Board 263 

Columbia's First Monarch 264 

A Divorce Attorney 264 

Madrigal 264 

Don't Forget Yourself 264 

To the Muses 265 

Our Fallen Brave 265 

Divine Tobacco 266 

Columbus in Chains 266 

"My Fellow Countrymen" 266 



Page 

The Section Hand's Wish 267 

Colfee and Tobacco 267 

Watchful Waiting on the Rio 

Grande 267 

A Vain Resolve '.267 

The Army Mule 268 

To King Alcohol 269 

MacDonald at Wagram 270 

Memorial Day 271 

A Tropic Morn 271 

To My Last Coin 272 

Wheel-Chair Monkey-Shines 272 

Fallen Castles 272 

The Monroe Doctrine 273 

Wolves 273 

The Choice of Bermudez 273 

Revel in Leon 274 

The Cavalier's Regret 275 

The World's Way 275 

Hymn of the Home Seeker 275 

In the Trenches 276 

Wyoming Hills 276 

A Day Iconoclastic— 1920 276 

British Troops in Nicaragua — 

1895 277' 

A Youthful Defeat 277 

My Noble Sire 278 

The Sunflower State 278 

Serpent in the Garden 278 

Tempus Fugit 278 

War Whoop of the Book Man. .279 

A Tropic Madrigal 279 

Daniel Boone 281 

Evolution of a Poem 282 

Columbus in a Storm 283 

Privut Penshun Bill 284 

A Desert Martyr 285 

My Own Mystery 286 

Spanish Rapacity 287 

Memory 287 

Ode 288 

The Choice We Made 289 

Elegy in a City Graveyard 290 

To an Old Sweetheart 290 

Nero's Feast 290 

Entering the World War 291 

The Bard Speaks Well of Him- 
self 291 

"The Great and Only John L.".292 

Feminine Suffrage -1916 292 

Washington 292 

"The Last Man" 292 



CONTENTS 



Page 

My Lost Poems 293 

Roving Love 293 

Holy Boozers On the Bosphorus.293 

The Mariner's Hope 293 

Black Hawk's Isle 294 

Apostrophe 296 

Philosophy of Jesse James 296 

Heroes of Shiloh 297 

Marc Antony 297 

Gen. George H. Thomas 298 

Homeward Bound 298 

The March of Coronado 299 

Our Protean Master 299 

The Dream of Count Portala . . .300 
The Dream of Lord Parkhurst. .301 

My Seventy-fifth Birthday 302 

Trajan at the Persian Gulf 302 

PROSE ADDENDA 

The Sorrows of Others 307 

Submerging of Atlantis 327 

War a Law of Nature 329 



Page 

Brutalities of War 334 

Number of Soldiers in the Civil 

War 337 

Petting and Pensioning Desert- 
ers . . : ; 339 

The Call of Kansas 341 

An Oratorical Gem 342 

Follies and Crimes of the Grand 

Autocracy 343 

Eternal Torture Chamber of the 

Gods 350 

Decadence of a Race 351 

Secession Movement in the Phil- 
ippines 352 

Sitting Bull 356 

The Great Riddle 359 

My Military Laurels 361 

The Secession Snake Still Alive. 362 
How the Water Came Down at 

Lodore 363 

The Confederacy and the In- 
dians 366 

General Notes 369 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



A CONFESSION OF FAILURE 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of .shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest Fame; 
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. 
Thou foundst me poor at first, and keepst me so; 
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well. 

— Oliver Goldsmith. 



I 

A mere recital of someone's troubles is usually tedious and 
uninteresting. Circumstances, however, seem to require that 
I shall mention a few of mine. 

At the age of seven I began writing historical rhyme with 
as clearly defined an ambition to win fame as a poet as I 
ever had in after years. Passing the age of seventy-five, and 
being nameless, friendless and poor, I knew failure had 
come — further effort was useless. With natural endowments 
to achieve success; with industry, ambition, resolution, tenac- 
ity of purpose — ^other qualities essential — I missed the goal. 
A variety of causes defeated me. Intemperance was one, in 
periodical attacks — a disease inherited directly and indirectly 
from predecessors who, in turn, inherit^ it from other 
predecessors. The curse came to me. With such an incubus, 
mingled often with penury and ill repute, a man is power- 
less to enforce rights, or battle with strong and ruthless foes. 

Also, I had private misfortunes; a restless, roving nature; 
a discontented mind, unsettled life; repeated losses of large 
manuscripts dismayed me — a disastrous result of drink; ex- 
treme poverty came at times, disgrace, and long periods of 
deep obscurity. Recurring spells of almost insane debauch- 
ery — at times, usually, when a contrary course was imper- 
ative — harmed me vastly. Chiefiy I suffered from unscrupu- 
lous acts of publishers to whom I offered books in manuscript, 
for I did much valuable work in the most thorough manner. 
One prose work of mine brought a fortune to those who dup- 
licated it. Without reputation or money, it is useless to 
write books. With an, ill reputation and no money, I hawked 



4 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

manuscripts about the country for years, merely to enrich 
publishers and aid noted authors. 

With marvelous good fortune in some respects — to an extent 
to often surprise me — I have had only disaster with books. 
Mishaps have been innumerable. Three times I have lost 
books on which I had worked earnestly for years. In 1895, 
in Chicago, I lost a large manuscript of poetical writings, but, 
with a partial duplicate in a city elsewhere, I restored the 
book. In the burning of San Francisco I lost a large manu- 
script (mainly unduplicated) containing the poetical writings 
of my whole life. From newspaper flies, from old letters to 
friends, from the rubbish of old trunks, and by the splendi.i 
aid of a once powerful memory, the present volume has re- 
sulted. To bring it together has required ten years of effort 
and thousands of miles of travel. Several long and ambitious 
epics perished almost entirely, and great numbers of minor 
poems. 

II 

To defend the originality of my writings, I started in to 
make a prose appendix for this volume — not a long one, but 
one sufficiently ample in facts and details to render my state- 
ments not incredible. I gathered evidence to show that other 
people had been treated much as I had been, and some of them 
a great deal worse — if that were possible. Like a litigant in 
court, I had to submit a brief, or be convicted of imitating 
and of plagiarizing from people who had shown undue appre- 
ciation of my writings. In twenty-four hours stenographers 
and typewriters can take the cream of an unpublished work. 
This can be handed over to a writer of great fame, who will 
speedily produce a substitute volume, and the publisher will 
make some money. He is not in business to lift nameless 
authors into fame, but merely to make money. If the victim 
complains, nobody will heed him, or care anything about the 
matter. 

So, from time to time, I compiled information bearing on 
these matters. From daily papers, court proceedings, patent 
office litigation — wherever I found it without trouble — I col 
lected particulars about literary frauds, forgeries, counter- 
feits, imitations, plagiarisms, and rival claims to authorship, 
and claims to valuable inventions as well. Much encouraged 
at first, I was finally nonplussed at the multiplicity of cases. 



A CONFESSION OF FAILURE 5 

and was at last perplexed to discover that instead of writing 
a short appendix to a volume of poems, I was really writing 
a large prose work on the* rights and wrongs and tribulations 
of authors, and the manifold evils of the publishing business. 
In this dilemma I decided to merely assert the strict origin- 
ality of my verse, and to publish it with the lightest possible 
allusion to any unfair treatment I had received. I shall 
particularize in only a few cases where it appears to be 
absolutely necessary. I may hereafter use the literary data 
I collected, for it is often interesting, and most of it is well 
authenticated. In a Prose Addenda to this volume I give a 
few of the innumerable cases that came to my notice. 

As for myself — call it weakness of character, mismanage- 
ment, injustice, cause-and-effect. Destiny, Chance, Providence, 
Fate or Circumstance — call it what you will — the unpropitious 
Force was always against me, and made success impossible. 
At the age of seventy-seven I print this volume, not in hope 
of honor, fame, justice, revenge, gold, or any recognition 
whatever. I print it as a gladiator fights to the end — because 
it is his nature to do so. "O that mine enemy would write a 
book," Job exclaimed in his bitterness. I re-echo the senti- 
ment with fervor. 

Slight inconsistencies of thought, here and there through 
the volume, may be attributed to the varied moods and vicis- 
situdes of a long life of almost constant change. "Blessed are 
they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed." 

A nameless poet may well claim of his pathway of thorns: 

"Its windings in and windings out 
Leave one's mind in serious doubt 
Whether the fiend that planned this route 
Was going to Hell or coming out." 

Henry Clinton Pakkhurst 



JUDITH 7 

JUDITH 

PRIORITY OF PUBLICATION 

In 1890 I submitted a volume of poems to a leading firm 
of Boston. The opening part of the book was the present 
poem of "Judith." Thomas Bailey Aldrich had for many 
years been in the employ of that firm, but by reason of a 
wealthy marriage, had retired to social and literary leisure. 
He had once published a short piece of blank verse about 
Judith, neither creditable to himself or the heroine. In 
1896, the firm alluded to brought out a whole volume from 
his pen entitled "Judith And Holofernes," and extensively 
advertised it as "really a new poem, written on broader 
lines." Mr. Aldrich also dramatized his book, and personally 
superintended the play resultant, but the enterprise was a 
failure. 

I printed my "Judith" entire on the 17th and 18th of Sep- 
tember, 1895, in the Davenport (Iowa) "Leader" — one year 
ahead of the Aldrich volume. 

In April, 1892 or 189-3, I published a synopsis of the poem, 
with liberal extracts from it, in the Davenport (Iowa) "Demo- 
crat." I did so for the reason that a person I had entrusted 
a copy of the poem with, said it was lost. 

To any charge of plagiarizing from Mr. Aldrich, or of 
imitating him, I offer the unimpeachable plea of priority 
of publication. 



JUDITH 

A ROMANCE OF ANCIENT WAR 

"The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were 
fair, and they took wives from among them. These bare 
children, and the same became mighty men of old — men of 
renown. There were giants in the land in those days." 

"The earth was filled with violence." 

I 
Holofernes, the soldier, came alone 
To breathe a message bold, in lofty tone. 
Before great Nineveh's imperial throne: 

"Twelve years the king has held his idle reign 
O'er palmy Nineveh's most fair domain; 
Twelve seasons passed in indolence and wine 
'Mong Asian girls of loveliness divine. 
Imperial halls their stately feasts have spread. 
Whence music pours to summer stars o'erhead. 
Vast pageantries, that win a world's amaze. 
Obscure the pomps of prouder former days. 
O Prince divine! Assyria's joyous king, 



8 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

I voice alarm! Behold, an awful thing 

A shadow throws across all Asia's path. 

seers of II rave in rebellious wrath, 

Of Heaven's mortal foes high priests inveigh; 

These gilded pleasure halls they'll burn away. 

These festal slaves will fall their bloody prey; 

Though empire trembles to its outer zone, 

Safe is the king, secure his royal throne. 

Hast thou not heard of peerless Ekbatain, 

That threatens Asia with disastrous reign? 

A city vast, new built of massive stone? 

Fell slaves in armies ere its walls were done. 

It shadows earth when low the sunset lies. 

Its granite piles dismay the starry skies. 

Machines of war; tall, massy gates of brass 

Guard well the portals through which hosts may pass. 

What foe hath Media found in mountains far? 

O, King, Arphaxad means with thee to war. 

To rule the world this haughty one aspires, 

To conquer thee, achieve thine empire's fall, 

O'erthrow the worship of celestial fires. 

When foemen arm shall revel music peal? 

Gay follies reign, or festal joy resound? 

A solemn fear thy faithful soldiers feel. 

Thy minions wild of merry wassail song — 

Voluptuaries pale, with roses crowned — 

Have ne'er the stormy scenes of Honor found. 

Prince arouse at martial Glory's call. 
To nobler cares a sovran's years belong. 
Thy sloth renounce lest Nimrod's empire fall. 
Gay trains of sirens from thy presence bar — 
Take up thy sword and lead thy hosts in war. 
For Ilus arm! We'll burn that robber's nest. 
Ay, strew with Median bones the border plain; 
When from invasion's toils our soldiers rest, 
The birds of air will feast on foemen slain — 
Hyenas howl through mighty Ekbatain." 

At once awoke all Shlnar's plains around 
With tumult of assembling armies grand 
That poured in glory through Assyria's land; 
Ambrosial vales with martial nations frowned. 
Came sons of Ilus of a thousand hills 
As foamy streams from snowy fountains melt; 
Where Tigris drained her sacred golden rills, 
Hydaspes flowed, or where the vernal belt 
Of.Ariock unrolled, spell of war was felt. 

Out went a feudal call from royal hand: 
"All men' to arms! Behold, array for me 
The flower of the soldiers of thy land, 

1 wage a war, and lo! I summon, thee." 



JUDITH 



To sovrans of renown in olden time, 

To kingdoms wide of crowded Asia's clime; 

To border chiefs — the restless nomads wild 

That wandered where the plains in beauty smiled; 

To cities, princes, thrones, ambitious lords — 

To earth afar went forth his royal words. 

Wild heathen clans came in ferocious hordes; 

Far famed athletes for Ilus drew their swords. 

But Iran gave no sign, nor from the coast 

Of soft Sidonia or Cilicia fair 

Came plumed legions for Assyria's host. 

The cities of the Nile resentful were — 

They slew high nobles who the message bare; 

From Tyrus came no roll of chariot wheel, 

Defiance rang from Galilee's far slope, 

Nor from the borders of great Ethiope, 

Rode men aligned in panoply of steel. 

"Are we the vassals of Assyria's throne?" 

Replied the Judah chiefs in haughty tone. 

"This mountain land is ours, and ours alone. 

What means to us a pagan sovran's wars? 

Go let him fight, the slaves receive their scars; 

Yea, let him place our land beneath his ban. 

Are we some portion of his empire's plan? 

Be gone! From out these hills will march no man." 

The King was wild, and by his throne he sware 

An awful doom upon Propontus coast; 

Phoenician domes would fall in midnight glare, 

Consuming flames atone Judea's boast, 

The Memphian halls be as a lion's lair; 

Woe, desolation, be Samaria's share. 

No man of all those nations would he spare — 

Those human swine! The sword should slay them all; 

Their cities, temples, palaces, should fall; 

The blood of millions would his wrath appease. 

With sword and fire all zones would he devour. 

Until he crossed o'er Nilus to the seas. 

Then marched he in array with all his power. 

To war the Median where he camped at ease. 

The die was cast — a line the tale may tell. 

The Median throne in fearful ruin fell. 

II 

Soft Asian airs float heavy with perfumes, 
The Sun with added glory seems to burn; 
Blue heaven's dome a deeper tint assumes. 
To hail the King of Nineveh's return. 



ID SO\c;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Out from his capital the myriads pour; 

They mass for miles beyond its utmost wall. 

What joy prevails; what shouts of gladness fall, 

When swells afar the low, momentous roar 

Of that colossal, brave, imperial host — 

Like moan of ocean storms on some wild coast. 

It fills the heart with fear, with strange alarms. 

With War's magnificence, rich tones of sound 

That move the souls of all the millions round, 

With standards golden, with resplendent arms, 

The victor comes; a god he seems to ride — 

That haughty ruler of the ancient world. 

His glance is fire; in scorn his lip is curled. 

O flight insane of boundless mortal pride. 

He deems the peopled earth — mankind his own. 

The son of Ninus, lord of empires wide. 

Why should he not of men be deified? 

Vain olden gods for him be cast aside? 

Sun worship cease in all the Summer Zone? 

The power of Jehovah be defied? 

No adoration of the stars be shown. 

Or sacrificial rites of sacred fire 

In vain, vile honor of the golden Sun? 

These dreamful hordes of Magi be undone? 

Chaldean seers no more invite his ire? 

All human form must fall before his throne. 

And hail him god of Earth — its god alone. 

For many days a vast procession streams 

'Neath storied arches of a hundred gates. 

Unclouded II pours down his fervid beams 

O'er mail-clad armies of proud feudal states. 

The eye is dimmed in gazing on the scene. 

The monstrous piles of architecture bold. 

That heavenward loom, intensify the sheen 

Of burnished metal, silvered arms and gold. 

Terrace, portico and winding tower 

Are black with lookers-on; below them flows 

A sea of ruthless military power. 

It surges on, in streams, to find repose. 

Rivers of men in polished armor pour; 

Chariots roll, uncounted horsemen speed; 

Squares choke with populace, and hundreds bleed; 

The air is rent with clamor and uproar. 

With scenes of woe the marts abhorrent are. 
To brutal foes pale Median girls are sold. 
Colossal spoils of most rapacious war 
Fill the great city with unhallowed gold. 

Ho! for pleasure halls! In madness range^ 
Let every soul to winsome follies yield. 



JUDITH 

For princely soldier pines for joyous change 

From gloomy perils on the martial field. 

The timbrel sound! Awake sweet revel noise; 

Red flow the vintage as in olden times. 

O nymphs of Asshur, wave your sportive toys. 

In flowers wreathe I O peal triumphal chimes 

As airy dancers in sweet languor poise. 

'Tis bright-eyed Rapture now the soul employs. 

Assyrian siren, pour the Tyrian wine 

That sparkles like those peerless orbs of thine, 

The nectar of Arabia's happy climes. 

And all delicious wave of Shebah's vine. 

Bestrew the revel hall with gorgeous flowers 

Till dewy morn dispels the glowing hours, 

Hail! delightsome Pleasure, festal joys. 

The Median king from his high throne is hurled, 

All Asia kneels! Nineveh rules the world! 

Ill 

The lutes are still, the cymbal sounds no more: 
The reckless bacchanalian scene is o'er. 
Stern silence reigns throughout the city vast — 
The w^ar, the triumph and its joys, are past. 
Who now will give the swords of heroes play? 
For slayers of their kind find wonted game? 
Restore the prodigal his wasted pay, 
Or lead the soldier to' new scenes of fame? 

Once more the tyrant's banner is unfurled 

For cruel war against a frighted world. 

His boast insane — the sword his sacred sign: 

"O Vermin of the sun, all earth is mine. 

To me in holy adoration fall 

All human form. I am the god of all. 

The olden deities their pomps resign. 

Osiris dies, Elohim's reign is o'er: 

Serapis, Horus, Ormuz, are no more; 

Lo! IMolok pales, and Remphan's throne is mine; 

Typhon, Chemosh, are no more divine, 

Fell Ormon fades; yea, Dagon mourns his fall — 

The gods are gone, for I outshine them all. 

My sacred empire is to final shore — 

To where the billows round Atlantis roar. 

Where astral zones, or sun, in splendor shine 

O'er mountains, vales or seas — the world is mine. 

In earth, for other gods, shall be no room. 

All empires, nations, thrones, my name adore; 

All powers, regions, isles, that orbs illume — 

Or awful ruin be their speedy doom. 

The men who question me will pass away; 

Their towers, castles, treasures be a prey; 

Their temples foul with dead and cities blaze; 



12 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Disaster, death, cut short their evil days. 

No mortal man shall worship gods of air. 

Nor moon, nor stars; nor sunlight sheen 

On places high, with altars builded there; 

With fires of costly incense lit between. 

Or blood of man cast o'er the rueful scene — 

Nor beast, nor bird, nor loathsome serpent lean. 

Nor images of deities unseen. 

Nor ghosts, nor graves, nor shrines. In hate I swear 

Extermination of the race unclean 

That raves of gods of air, of specters dim. 

Or speaks Jehovah's name, or worships Him. 

Mine anger burns! Jehovah's potent arm 

Will smite in vain to save his race from harm. 

No more the sunshine warms his viper brood. 

Their boasted God will rule a solitude. 

I'll make those rebel mountains flow with blood — 

Ay, heap their hated vales with rebel slain. 

None of my words are said in vain. 

Holofernes. the rod of wrath assume — 

The choice of man is homage or the tomb. 

All idols fall, the flags of thrones be furled, 

For I am god of earth — lord of the world." 

Far fell the fear of Asshur's fatal sword. 
When issued forth a wild, rapacious horde 
In power, splendor, pomp, all Asian pride — 
With peal of battle horn, on ev'ry side; 
The clang of arms, ferocious yells, replied. 
Assyria's devils howled with fiendish joy, 
Let loose to ravish, massacre, destroy. 
The nations wailed in misery, despair; 
The smoke of ruined cities filled the air. 
Where swift the bloody hand of Asshur fell 
Burst forth a saturnalian scene of Hell. 

IV 
On lion's walls brave knights their lines arrayed; 
Their stately banners waved in high disdain; 
Their trumpets pealed across a smoky plain; 
Of Asshur's host those knights were not afraid — 
They had resolved on deaths of martial fame. 
The foe around the mighty city drew, 
Its tow«rs took and its high walls o'er threw, 
The populace and all the strong men slew — 
Then turned its mural beauty into shame. 
The prince o'er thrown, in golden fetters bound, 
Forebore of cruel foemen to be seen 
With aught that savored of a craven's mien. 
The victor cried: "Remove this foreign hound, 
But find him ample pain before he dies. 
Kill thou his captive sons before his eyes, 



JUDITH 

Then blind him slow in some atrocious wise, 
And wall him up alive in his own ground." 
Then Asshur spoiled the land, from center round. 

Rich targes heavy with pure Opjiir gold, 
That hung on walls of Belus temple old; 
Rubies, pearls — in Oriental tribute paid; 
A golden Sun men venerated there, 
Upon whose shrine had princes' lives been laid; 
Public hoards of gold, sacred vessels rare; 
Huge treasures in the palace halls displayed, 
The vestal crowns and arms with gems inlaid; 
All trophies fine, the virgins thought most fair — 
These were the spoils to Nineveh conveyed. 
All else within the land became the prey 
Of Asshur's host — the damsels fair to view; 
Silver, amber, gold, the treasures hid away; 
Rare foreign arms, choice coats of Tyrian hue; 
Strange plates of mail with shields of ormolu; 
Ivory, perfumes, voluptuous luxuries — 
What e'er the lustful soldiers cared to seize. 

Then were the captives brought out sorrowing. 

Ilolofernes, the royal chieftain, said: 

"Those men may live, to till the soil for bread." 

Of other swarms: "They shall much treasure bring. 

Lo, they shall fill the coffers full of gold 

At Nineveh; for slaves they shall be sold." 

Of other hapless men he thus decreed: 

"For public slaves in chains assign them all. 

On tower, pyramid or castle wall 

Hard shall they toil, vile be their daily feed. 

With blows to make their naked bodies bleed." 

Of nobler youth — strong, beautiful and brave. 

He said: "I saw those men grave dangers dare. 

Not one of them be slain or made a slave. 

With us they serve in arms — O chiefs, beware 

Lest I consume in wrath as well as spare." 

The other youth, immense with their array, 

He bade his myrmidons in fury slay. 

Then swept he all rebellious nations back. 

And woe, fire, desolation, fringed his track. 

V 

Where Bethulia made its lone defence 

Of Zion's hills and holy shrines and homes — 

With banners floating from its castle domes, 

The vast Assyrian host removed its tents. 

In stern magnificence the pagans came. 

So dense they massed upon the mountain's base, 

Their multitudes obscured the valley's face. 

Their glossy metal shone like vivid flame. 



14 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Bethulia's boldest men were daunted sore, 
Upon the dreadful scene in terror gazed. 
Samaria's plain sent up an ocean roar; 
To vision's reach Assyrian armor blazed. 
Riders, charioteers, processions bright. 
Like hostile nations came in sight. 

"Alas! O Nineveh hath rule of earth," 

Brave men made murmur in their great dismay. 

"Our petty force will but awake her mirth. 

The mighty world becomes at last her prey. 

Our very land will scarce that host contain. 

Its weight alone will break these walls away; 

It covers all Samaria's vasty plain." 

Then every man had fear of heart ; he stood 

With weapon drawn, upon Bethulia's walls 

Till sunset lusters fell in rosy flood. 

And rayless eve threw down its ebon palls. 

Then from the towers flamed red watch fires far, • 

For black low heavens hung — without a star. 

When rolled Invasion's wave, with murmurs loud, 

To view that host a girl of Judah stood 

Upon the walls in stately solitude. 

With lustrous eye, with courage unsubdued. 

The lady Judith fair — with soul as proud 

As Lucifer's when angels fought on high 

To bid his baleful, mad ambitions die. 

Far swept her gaze beneath her native sky. 

All scenes she viewed the might of Ilus marred. 

Her presence lured with ev'ry wond'rous charm; 

Her gen'rous thoughts — as pure as fleecy shroud 

That winter veils o'er high Tacoma's form; 

Her spirit high, adventurous and warm. 

A stormy, haughty nature shone in eyes 

Aglow with force, impetuous but wise. 

She was no flower of the lighter crowd. 

To twine a festal -breath, or toy with lyre. 

But one of power, swift emotion, fire — 

Such dame as heroes, demi-gods, admire. 

She wore the semblance of a gorgeous cloud, 

Or menace — beauty, of a summer storm 

I'hat floats in splendor down an azure sky. 

With rolling thunder peal to terrify, 

With hem of sunlit silver, fringe of gold — 

JiTajestic, dang'rous powers in its fold. 

That blaze o'er frighted skies — to purify. 

In thought absorbed o'er hapless Judah's woes. 

She sought her home at fateful sunset's close. 

While others bowed in silence of despair. 

She poured her stormy soul in Passion's prayer. 



JUDITH 

VI 
Oppressive darkness o'er Bethulia spread. 
Thick palls of starless eve depended round. 
It seemed a habitation of the dead, 
Disaster's home, Contagion's revel ground. 
An awful silence fell, of omen ill. 
Calamity breathed all its presence there. 
A Spirit moved upon a voiceless air. 
Men spoke in whispers — only of despair. 
All souls rebellious were of cooler will. 
They fain had lifted up a doleful cry, 
Or sent a frenzied wail — a shriek — on high. 
To pierce the gloomy, weighty air with sound, 
For heaven — earth — all flesh, became so still. 
'Twas inky, awful darkness overhead. 
Prom out a dreadful night came forth no sound 
Save, ever and anon, the martial tread 
Of some stern soldier on his watchful round ; 
With vague relief the noise of watchers fell. 
It marred a weird, a supernatural spell; 
Men were in fear, in superstitious pain. 
Such deep, unearthly gloom; the tension, strain, 
Intense alarm — drove weaker minds insane. 

Within her lonely chamber Judith mused, 

All pale with mournful thought — in silent woe. 

For solitude she craved; her soul refused 

Vain human converse o'er such evils dire. 

She saw, alas! Judea's overthrow — 

Beheld a wreck that must anon transpire; 

Her visions wild foretold what must befall — 

The flames, the slaughters, crimes — she saw them i 

They burned before her dizzy brain like fire. 

She wailed with utter grief; her lavish tears 

Relieved at last an almost frantic mind; 

Her lofty spirit soothed her dismal fears; 

She calmly mused once more with courage blind. 

O for some power in her woman's hand! 

Was there no way to save her native land? 

A thought! She start ed^paused — arose in haste 

And hurriedly the stately chamber paced. 

Then paused again, and long was lost in thought. 

She seemed a statue to perfection wrought. 

How nobly beautiful she was; her years 

W^ere those when Woman sways her utmost force 

For good or ill; when passions run their course 

Defiant of all prudent rules or fears. 

To crown a life with happiness or tears; 

When Woman's lion will defies control — 

And flashing eyes reveal her stormy soul. 

Yet was there greatness in her thoughtful mien. 

As there she mused — would grace a royal scene, 



16 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

For mighty thoughts arose within her brain. 
She stood like some aroused, imperious queen. 
No soft amour awol\;e her high disdain, 
No tender words of love fell from her tongue. 
The fate of empires — races — nations, hung 
Upon the subtle movements of her brain. 

"And if I fail," said she, "Severe my doom — 

Dishonor, torture, scarce a pariah's tomb. 

E'en here in Judah will Derision smile, 

Then speak of me, with all suspicions vile. 

And if the deed be done and I shall die. 

Perchance this fearful storm will not be by. 

My blood will pour, but Zion's race will fall — 

Yea, more disastrous horror visit all — 

The very hills warp 'neath a smoky sky, 

Because this thing was e'er conceived at all. 

Grey matrons loathe me for their daughters' pain. 

Some living death may wait. A gloomy cell 

May shut me In from flow'ry, sunny earth. 

From stars — from all the scenes I love so well, 

From joys of home and happy hours of mirth. 

There in some dismal hole I'll pine away — 

Grow haggard, old, emaciated, grey — 

Go mad! recalling of my fairer day. 

How will they kill me if they wish my death? 

In what strange, brutal, fierce, barbarian way. 

So full of pain that speedy death were play? 

death becomes indeed a grewsome thing — 

If close we gaze upon it shuddering. 

Though now we mock it with gay, merry breath. 

When close we view it, 'tis most awful death. 

Yet men do brave it on the plains of strife. 

With plumes — with gaudy colors all arrayed, 

And hail with haughty scorn a peaceful life. 

They find a joy in War's unhappy trade. 

Shall not a woman's heart be also bold? 

Her life for lofty purposes be sold? 

O! 'tis a fearful doom to die e'en here. 

With gentle friends around, where all is peace; 

Where passage to the grave is but release. 

Oft times, from countless cares that grow severe. 

How shall I face a death from brutal foes. 

Who rudely place their hands on me in hate? 

Who curse me and insult with savage blows? 

Who drag — who push me, to some dreadful fate? 

And life to me now seems so glad, so sweet, 

So full of joy — I fain would never die. 

But live alway beneath some sunny sky 

Where wars and all these woes would never meet. 

Why issues not some fierce, ambitious man 



JUDITH 

To foil the foe with subtle, crafty plan? 

Some chief with mail of brass and ruthless hand, 

Who does not care for life, but draws his brand 

With joy, for fame — for Glory's lofty cheat? 

Why should a woman arm to save a land? 

But no man moves! They all do quail with fear, 

And soon, alas! the brutal foe is here. 

It is a fearful hazard for a dame to take. 

'Tis desperation — worse than fate of death. 

My blood is cold, with nervous fears I shake. 

Mere contemplation stays my hasty breath. 

For I shall be alone with savage foes 

Who hate my race, delight in rueful scenes. 

In what weird manner will the venture close? 

I think in vain, for darkness intervenes. 

O God! Howe'er the dang'rous die be cast. 

On me their vengeance will descend at last. 

Yet if I here abide, 'tis but to be 

A few more troublous days in sorrow free. 

Then falls Bethulia — awful scenes await. 

Gaze where I will the view is desolate. 

How nobler then to die a death of pride? 

To give my life to turn the storm aside. 

Death comes to all, and when at last I'm dead. 

What matter if this life was brief or long. 

So that a worthy praise of me be said? 

And of the deed? 1 do no grievous wrong 

To save the lives of all my native race — 

Preserve my country, home, my native place. 

Ah! woman true abhors all bloody crime — 

hapless fate to see such evil time. 

The life of man is brief— I do not take 

A life, but shorten it some restless years, 

Nor strike the fatal blow for mine own sake. 

Judea shall not fall nor bathe in tears. 

To slay a man whose trade it is to slay. 

Is but to make a vulture wild your prey, 

To sweep a monster from your dang'rous way. 

But be it good or ill, this woman's hand 

Will deal a tigress blow for Judah's land. 

With soul on fire, here now for death I stand — 

For worse than death — at will of Heaven high. 

An inspiration from Almighty's throne. 

Impels me forth amid that host alone, 

And if I fall, no precious one am I. 

I'll save Judea's heritage — or die! 

I'll save it though I die. I'll dare this deed 

Though Judah fall and all in vain I bleed. 

All blows aire fair in such disastrous need. 

Soon shall defiant Asshur wail in shame, 

A proud blasphemer fear his boastful creed. 

My beauty, honor, life, my woman's fame — 

2 



18 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

All that I am — I stake upon this game." 

Thus flew her thoughts — O, when the soul is torn 

With wild emotions from fierce passions born, 

Time's leaden heel takes on such nimble pace 

The hours fly as in a festal chase. 

How soon within was rosy light of morn. 

Now shall she prove her haughty spirit well. 

For words no more upon great issues tell. 

The time for fears, reflections, all is past. 

She stands on Action's fatal verge at^ last. 

How calm she was — how stern — how very pale. 

Her beauty was a factor in the game 

Of death she meant to play — perchance of shame. 

She needed not a shield, a coat of mail, 

Nor arms, nor glaives nor crest of beaten steel, 

Nor darts to stay on-rolling chariot wheel. 

Her weapons were to be the tender smile. 

The flash of liquid eyes, the whispered word. 

The gentle touch of hand, the gracious wile — 

That prove more potent than a cruel sword — 

Prepare more woe than battle fields afford. 

Therefore she robed in raiment of a queen. 

With costly gems to gild her noble charms. 

O Eve of Glory! ne'er had soldier seen 

Such goddess panoplied for war's alarms. 

In soft, celestial loveliness she shone, 

A spirit fair of some supernal zone, 

An angel moving on a mortal scene. 

O'er temples pale a crown of gold she placed, 

All ornaments of sensuous deceit 

Her form adorned; all precious hues of taste, 

With graven spans of pure Atlanta gold, 

Bejeweled o'er, upon imperial arms. 

She clad herself to shine with all her charms— 

To ravish eyes of all that might behold. 

Soon solemn thoughts o'ercame her haughty air. 
And low she fell in tearful frenzy's prayer. 

"O God!" she wailed, "in this disastrous hour. 
See Thou how terrible is Asshur's power. 
His bloody onsets mar the world's repose. 
In swords of warriors he places trust; 
He strews the nations in his battle dust. 
A sea of tears for Asshur's glory flows. 
As olive leaves, or summer stars on high. 
Or countless waves where vasty oceans lie, — 
These hordes of cruel, superstitious foes- 
Baal's haughty paladins of martial skill. 
Who love wild war — storm tower, wall or hill; 
Resistless move to force of mortal man. 
Their host oppose no human prowess can. 
Their glossy swords pass heathen armor through. 



JUDITH 

Strange metals mold their many weapons true. 

They scourge a frighted world at savage will. 

See Thou what armaments our vallies fill. 

Their despot vain blasphemes Jehovah's name. 

Our city holy will he wreathe in flame, 

All under heaven in his rage he'll burn, 

Our temples wreck, Thine altars overturn, 

The vales depopulate with bloody sword. 

His pride abase— yea, sorrow be his dower. 

His glory quell — O strike Judea's Lord. 

O'erthrow Assyria with remorseless power. 

Be merciless in this momentous hour. 

With Heaven's fury arm a desp'rate hand, 

So, when alone mid H's great host I stand, 

I hurl it back o'erwhelmed — at Thy command, 

Now all our mighty men abandon hope. 

And I go forth v/ith multitudes to cope. 

In woman's wrath — when all the strong one's quail. 

May not my heart or holy purpose fail. 

Be Thou my guardian in tremendous need. 

That I may do a great — an awful deed." 

High courage in some gen'rous, noble cause — 
How beautiful it is. Its mandate awes, 
Its presence lingers — memory endears. 
It lives in thoughts of men. The statue rears 
In vain its marble crest with peerless pose — 
In vain it challenges with gaze of pride. 
If glorious human action shines beside; 
In vain the master's famous canvas glows, 
In vain the mus^ic of magnific song, 
Where courage all its frenzied power throws 
Tlnto the scale, to right some grievous wrong. 
Art has no beauty like a deed sublime. 
Some action great to charm all after .time. 
Some glorious deed that bids arch-angels gaze 
In admiration, wonderment and praise. 
How then a mighty soul o'ercomes all fears. 
Controls each impulse with a demon's will, 
Commands the trembling nerves of flesh be still — 
Ay, bids the spectre Death in homage kneel. 
Transforms- our clay to adamant or steel. 
T'is honor, duty and a lofty cause 
Give high disdain — supreme contempt of death; 
They nerve the soldier to his dying breath. 
Inspire the deeds that win a world's applause. 
When furied Woman lifts her gentle hand- 
In sheer despair the sword of Murder draws, 
To smite a tyrant from her native land, 
The deed revolts — not so her purpose grand. 



20 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

VII 
Beneath a spacious dome of purple hue, 
Where lavish oriental splendor shone — 
Its woven gold begemmed with costly stone, 
Was Holofernes, in gloomy thought alone. 
His lofty menials bade him deign to view 
A woman worthy of an Asian throne. 
This prince of war, whose idlest mood was law, 
In deep amaze, celestial Judith saw, 
"I fly a land the wrathful gods have doomed. 
It shall be given you to be consumed," 
She said — then lowly fell in feigned awe. 

"Thou fear no more," the grey-haired soldier cried, 

"Sweet rose of Salem! in our tents abide. 

In honor dwell — yea, be Assyria's guest. 

No haughty one shall have thee move aside. 

No sentry stay thee or thy peace molest. 

For Babylonia hath no girl so fair. 

Nor brighter star glows o'er the rosy west; 

Thy features comely, beautiful thy hair; 

A home of noble thoughts thy pensive brow. 

Nay, nay, mine adulations be confest. 

With stars or gold thy semblances compare, 

And thou a gem of all fair jewels found, 

A purple cluster from Engedi's ground; 

Like eyes of doves thine eyes, a lily thou, 

A flower blown — I feast upon thee now 

To ravish all my soul with pleasure sweet. 

Sidonian odors burn around thy feet. 

Thy temples pale with richer gems be crovi^ned 

For safe thou art — a thousand swords around! 

No queen's espousal e'er bestows a joy 

On people's hearts, as vision of thy face 

On me confers, in midst of war's employ. 

Hail! sweet conception of Judean grace, 

No lawless hand will here thy peace annoy. 

Voluptuous thy ways, thy movements, are; 

Thy glance is clear as flash of Chellan star; 

As ivory thine arms, thy lips a rose. 

O daughter of Jerusalem, repose. 

On thee Judea's vales their languor shed. 

One so delightful fair — yea, one so wise, 

Should have her home beneath serener skies, 

Where Nineveh in all its glory lies, 

With royal scenes to greet her gentle eyes, 

With castle roofs above her crowned head." 

O Beauty! gift alone of Heaven's hand! 
Supreme enshrined in angel Woman's form, 
Dark moods of Genius change at thy command; 
Ferocious Force throws down his bloody brand, 



JUDITH 

O'ercome by wondrous power of thy charm. 

The demons grieve, deceiving thee to harm. 

We seek for thee among eternal stars, 

On flow'ry plains, where ocean storms prevail. 

'Neath nature's dome a pensive impulse mars. 

How shall our glowing hymns to thee avail? 

Thou art of haughty mood, and silent all. 

Nor heed pale worshipers that round thee fall. 

But when we view thee in sweet woman's guise. 

Thou art a joy divine to mortal eyes. 

High poets lieap their songs, old men tlieir gold. 

The swarthy warrior his awful bays. 

Young men the loyalty of all their days 

Before thy shrine — Queen of supernal mold! 

VIII 
So Judith dwelt in warlike pomp alone. 
Assyria's prince a restless fervor felt. 
As though an evil star above him shone. 
Strange dreams alarmed; in solemn fear he knelt. 
He deemed a menace came from Ormon's throne. 
Perchance the wrath of awful Belus dealt 
A blow through all Assyria's royal zone. 
Emotions deep his lips would fain disown. 
In silence bade his lofty spirit melt. 
In manhood's autumn prime, what use had he 
For what soft maidens or their plaintive swains, 
Or sighing vagabonds of minstrelsy. 
Define as love, or sing in idle strains? 
Thus far in life his bosom had been free , 
Of all unhappy storms but those of war. 
Of court intrigue, of vast diplomacy. 
He had his harem in his home afar. 
Where famed Euphrates poured its yellow waves; 
His choice of captives and of Grecian slaves; 
Ferocious lust he knew the meaning of. 
But till fair Judith came he smiled at love. 
Now burned his heart with Love's disastrous glow; 
Mad heathen passions flamed like fires below. 
And she — his deadly, most remorseless foe. 
Romantic vales walled in with vivid green, 
Gave forth no echo of the soldier's tread. 
No mortal tumult marred the regal scene. 
The gardens wide their heavy odor shed. 
Fit for the chamber of an Asian queen; 
Pomegranate shades, wide pools of crystal spread. 
Cool brooks flowed on their mossy banks between; 
Hoar, ancient hills — the sunlit heights o'erhead — 
Forbade a great world's roar to intervene. 

Forlorn as lover of ignoble name. 

He lonely wandered by these flow'ry ways. 



22 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

To dream of her, of happiness and fame. 

"How vain," he mused; "is life — a few brief days!" 

Then are we gone — we leave no worthy trace. 

rx»! Nature's green, ambrosial fane. 

Alone before her stately shrine I stand. 

I question with impetuous demand, 

f Heek to solve her mystery in vain. 

Hath any part of man a future place? 

Earth is rude mother of the human race. 

The far, bright Sun — O sacred zone of fire! 

Ot all that lives, moves, dies — is our great sire, 

But whence it came in vain do we inquire. 

All earth will perish when its flames expire. 

We call it Horus — adorate its face. 

Perchance it little heeds our puny race. 

That fumes, that suffers, in its genial blaze. 

Riy brain's confused — my thoughts at random chase, 

Nor strange, for even gods are out of place. 

'Tis said a star of war blazed out last night 

That frighted all the sky with train of fire. 

A Memphian seer who oft hath told me right. 

Predicts a mighty man will soon expire. 

Ah, well! mayhap he deems departure light. 

I've bartered life, alas! for martial bays. 

And oft I deeply mourn such fatal years. 

Ah! they have teemed with crimes, with nations* teari 

With wars, revenges, awful scenes of hate; 

With dazzling splendors of imperial state, 

With surfeit of disaster — human pain. 

I would not see those horrors o'er again, 

Though Nimrod's envied glories I might reap. 

I am not old but this great empire's care 

My temple sears; it has imprinted there 

Displeasing lines, and furrows all too deep, 

A trembling, hoary Magian seer might wear. 

Renowned of men, where vaunts a mortal foe 

Who dares to meet me, hand to hand, in arms! 

My soul delights in tumults and alarms, 

A thousand lords my fierce ambition show. 

They loll in purple robes, attire in gold, 

But fear the perils of the martial field. 

My royal spirit is of sterner mold. 

With joy the regal sword in strife I wield. 

When loud the onset clarions have been pealed, 

Who dares to beard me on the bloody field, 

Or lead, like me, strong men through scenes of death? 

[ mark their mien in Trial's dreadful hour- — 

I see them battle in their brutal power; 

Ay, fight resolved unto their final breath'. 

Clad in mine armor of pure steel or gold. 

With shiny crest adorned with snowy plumes, 

My tow'ring form the cloud of war illumes; 



JUDITH 

Mine action wild, each lofty impulse bold. 

On some Iranian plain's extended floor, 

Sublime to see mine host in combat pour, 

A living, breathing, shining, warlike mass. 

What nations in magnific order pass. 

In grandeur wild; sonorous trumpets peal; 

On rush the tribes of old, barbaric fame. 

The moving millions clad in sunlit steel. 

Like lightning fill the air with awful flame. 

Rich standards wave, shield or silver helmet shine; 

Impassioned heroes cheer each dauntless line; 

Some chorus wild that scarce our tumults mar. 

Extols the glories of high triumphs o'er; 

On sweeps a swollen tidal wave of war 

That startles Asia with portentous roar. 

The trappings, glitter, of war's noble game 

Delight mine eyes; the stately voice of Fame 

My heart consoles in every gloomy hour. 

Whence come oppressive clouds that round me lower? 

Presentiments of evil and of shame? 

What should a gray haired soldier now desire 

But soft repose, return of Passion's fire? 

The ministrations of some gentle hand 

Like her's — this paragon of Judah's land! 

I'll sweep these hostile western lands with fire; 

I'll wreak upon them all mine ancient ire, 

Then will I stay my sword forever more, 

To crown with happiness life's final hour. 

'Mong Median hills, where foamy torrents pour, 

In pomp I'll dwell, with Judah's peerless flower. 

Soothed by her smiles I'll have at last mine ease; 

Each soft infatuation shall be mine. 

I'll cancel perils by the foreign seas. 

Forget old wars in idleness and wine, 

Delight in love, all happy" arts employ. 

To my great King imperial cares consign, 

Make all around a scene of peace divine. 

And waste mine age in tranquil scenes of joy." 

O strange fatalities our lives control. 
In this mysterious prison place of earth, 
A smile may to an endless woe give birth. 
One soul has empire of another soul; 
Lives fondly mingle, to diverge again; 
Great intellect attains immense control 
O'er lower millions, whom it lifts from pain, 
Or basely burdens with oppression's chain; 
An impulse may sweep on a thousand years, 
A word entail a century of tears. 
Who shall aver that he his life controls? 
O fool, not e'en the earth self-driven rolls. 
As mortal mind o'ercomes another's will. 



24 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

An airy presence may instill a thought 

That bears tremendous fruits of good or ill. 

Upon a zephyr blown, a "spark is caught 

In idle tinder with'ring on the lea. 

To kindle blaze wide as the Tyrrhene sea. 

The noiseless movements of a brooding mind, 

Awake a kindred mind to moody thought, 

While Holofernes o'er hapless love repined. 

Nor dreamed that frightful dangers round him were, 

Rut idly roved in reveries of her, 

'Neath rich pavilion's dome unseen she sate, 

And wove the subtle toils that held his fate. 

'Twas thus she mused: "How vanish thoughts of wrath 

If kindness foils; the force my spirit hath — 

Its impulse bold — abates in heavy fear; 

I tremble at each idle tumult near. 

A misty gloom enveils a weary mind 

Whose dull perceptions grow to purpose blind. 

Confused are thoughts that late unrolled so clear. 

My life is like a black phantasm here. 

Ah! if but one of them this purpose knew — 

The thought o'ercomes me with an awful fear. 

In vain I weave- my fiendish plan again; 

It soon is gone beneath a fearful strain 

That fills me with keen agonies of pain. 

Unreal is each scene I daily view. 

And I, a passive instrument, borne on 

By some stupendous power to goals I rue. 

How vain to muse when mind itself is gone. 

Where, where the weighty import of this deed? 

O, must a prince of martial strangers bleed. 

Who is too lofty for ambitions vile? 

Whose manly voice grows tender if I smile? 

How can his death cure ills which have to be? 

At least, what wrong hath he imposed on me? 

Repulsive all my thoughts of murder seem. 

Am I the plaything of some awful dream? 

Perchance controlled by some fierce demon's will 

Who would my brain derange — to have me kill! 

What if this crime should prove a dread mistake? 

Will hosts of Asslnir vanish for my sake? 

Why shall I slay or this great soldier fall? 

O now I wake and understand it all. 

The act appals! I must have bolder thought; 

For all high reasons must the deed be wrought. 

If blood must flow, no more the trial wait; 

Soon be the hour of this venture great." 

IX 
If he had been for Zion's glory there. 
Such noble prince of war — such famous knight — 



JUDITH 25 

Had M'on swift admiration in her sight, 

When came he with his adulations fair. 

He bade her shine beside his festal board, 

As light of soul as Ilo's daughters were. 

Low strains of pensive music should be poured. 

Incense of ocean Tyrus fill the air. 

Sweet heathen girls o'er flow their gobblets bright 

With precious wines from jars begemmed with stones. 

While stars illumed an oriental night. 

The pomps be their's that sovrans on their thrones 

Enjoy, fared on the spoils of conquered zones. 

With hesitation's air at last she smiled, 

Then gracious anwer gave unto her lord. 

High beat his heart, with rosy dreams beguiled; 

Enrapt he mused on infamy's reward. 

Of subtle wines from Amokostah's vales 

He freely quaffed, so blithe he was of heart. 

She came at eve, arrayed with utmost art — 

Kind, beautiful, soft as Arabian gales. 

He voiced his joy — his tender passion's glee: 

"My soul goes forth, Judean girl, to thee. 

Whose lips are honey dew, and eyes are stars. • ■ 

No evil cloud this hour of pleasure mars. 

What idle priest inveighs that dangers be 

Where mirth is fast, its light emotions free? 

That gods in envy gaze on mortal joy — 

Ere bliss prevails, in vengeful wrath destroy? 

That man should sorrow for his many sins, 

That never soul its utmost rapture wins, 

Nor ever is delight but with alloy? 

Vain are the sermons of these people wise. 

Who ne'er have seen the glory of thine eyes. 

Lo! all is tranquil here — in midst of war. 

Safe are we, love, as on a lonely star. 

Howe'er a troublous world may find employ. 

Judean rose! our task is only joy. 

With olive wreathe!' let merry laughter, wine, 

Be sweet as those delicious lips of thine. 

Awake, O dulcimer! O festal horn! 

Romanceful harp — depart all moods forlorn! 

AVe wander now by rapture's rosy brink. 

The wave is free — O let us drink — 

Yea, laugh derisive ills of life to scorn, 

As though we ne'er shojild see another morn." 

X 

At midnight's hour the feast of love was o'er; 
Fell wealth of roses o'er the pleasure floor; 
The fruitage, purple grapes, the vintage, lay 
Unheeded as the tears of long ago. 
In echoes waned each mellow strain away, 
The weary slaves withdrew with murmur low. 



26 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

And he of Glory's toils — Il's victor gray, 
Whose genius wrought an empire's overthrow — 
On couch of gold, in dreamy trance he lay, 
With wine o'ercome — alone — to be her prey — 
Chaldea's prince, Judea's mortal foe — 
A victim pale for sacrificial blow. 
The chiefs withdrew before his royal door, 
The air, all earth, an awful silence wore. 

With eye malign she stole beside his bed, 

To view him long with vacillation's gaze. 

"A dark, a traitorous design," she said, 

"What ending of a mighty soldier's days. 

How soft he breathes — mine flesh with horror creeps, 

Mine eye-balls burn, my very sight is dim, 

To see how calmly, peacefully he sleeps. 

And I so near to deal such death to him. 

My blood is cold, a tremor chills each limb. 

These hands of mine elude the will's control. 

This is a devil's work — I yet am clean. 

No blood is on my robe or on my soul. 

What if I fly. this cursed, horrid scene. 

And leave to men of war this bloody deed — 

To butchers of our kind, whose only creed 

Is brutal violence to win some goal? 

I shudder, sicken, at the thought of tliis, 

I would not slay him for eternal bliss. 

murd'rous crime! Alas, if I decline. 

All Zion will unroll a flamy waste; 

A cruel foe will spoil our holy shrine; 

The bitterness of death will all men taste. 

Fair children fall beneath the pagan sword. 

All women be the prey of Asshur's horde. 

How earth will loathe me to all flnal time, 

A murderess! no heroine sublime — 

One who defiled herself by stealth to slay 

The mightiest man of Asia's clime, 

As reptiles crawl to kill their nobler prey. 

O God! if I had seen him only now. 

Nor on him gazed in simulation's glee; 

If he had shown a rudeness unto me, 

Or on me gazed with base, offensive brow, 

Or by an idle word implied a scorn, 

'Twere easier to slay as I have sworn. 

There was but kindness in his revelry. 

List! of love he speaks — alas! for me. 

How can I slay him where in peace he' lies? 

O plan of utmost Hell! Why shall it be 

When tenderness pervades empyrean skies? 

Again he speaks — my God! his words appall. 

He cries— 'Bethulia's mine! O slay them all'." 



JUDITH 27 

She swiftly moves to where his falchion lies 
In golden sheath beside his martial bed. 
With spiteful sound his trusty steel replies. 
As forth she rends it: o'er her jeweled head 
An instant like a shaft of death it shines. 
Dread scintillations clothe its gleaming lines; 
It falls — it blushes ^eep with purple stains; 
With tides drawn from her heathen lover's veins, 
Another frenzied blow — and he is dead! 
A headless corse on gore-bespattered bed. 

Holofernes! not by the royal sword 

Of Madian prince or famous Memphian lord 

Art thou made silent in dishonor there; 

Not by the Genii or celestial sons, 

The children of the gods — impetuous ones 

Whose feats of prowess are brave men's despair, 

With all thy noted wars, thy great command, 

How hast thou fallen by a woman's hand? 

O'er northern hills thy peerless cohorts came, 

With cruel spears, their van a sea of flame. 

Loud were thy brags the utmost lands to burn, 

The fountains from primeval courses turn. 

With multitude of all thine army's feet. 

No mortal foe would e'er thy power meet. 

All earth would cower 'neath a despot's rod. 

Adore a monster as creation's God, 

Or mountain vales pour streams of human blood. 

Fair Judith smiled — allured thine am'rous eyes — 

Lo! where thy headless corse repulsive lies. 

Thy dream adieu of sensuous delight; 

She flies to Judah's vales through shades of night. 

XI 
Most weird, unheard-of morn! An evil glare 
Of ill portent stole o'er Samaria's coast. 
Dim spectral beams dazed Asshur's fated host. 
With blaze obscure the sun dyed horrid air, 
Then paler grew, as though his force were lost, 
Fear smote each heathen breast; with whited lips 
The pagan hordes viewed Horus in eclipse. 
His anger tamed each vain blasphemer's boast. 
With din of arms, with battle trumpet's blare, 
Bethulia's braves aligned in phalanx deep — 
In massive squares along the lofty steep; 
With stormy cheers, as though for open fight 
Assembling on their native mountain height. 
Pale Judith paused upon a bannered wall. 
To watch how soon her thunderbolt would fall. 

"Assyrians, align! We are defied! 

In haste array!" the pagan heroes cried. 



28 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

"Holof ernes, come forth! Fear not his frown — 
Awake him, slaves! The rebel knights come down." 

High princes came within his gorgeous tent 

With fear, lest he their boldness would resent. 

Alas — Assassination's awful sight! 

His headless corse in bloody purple wound — 

Horrific — loathsome — on the gory grouncf, 

A gruesome trophy of the festal night. 

They pierced the air with wail of dismal sound; 

In frenzy flew — precipitation, fright; 

Afar they gave disastrous rumors round. 

O Ruin's morn! strange, superstitious fears. 

With speed of thought, passed o'er that fated host, 

While echoed far the foe's derisive cheers. 

By Judith's blow Assyria's might was lost. 

Through miles of camps contagious terror spread; 

Tribes of renown, proud heathen princes, fled; 

In shame, confusion, and with haste insane, 

Assyria's host reeled o'er Samaria's plain. 

O'er Zion's hills a tale of triumph sped, 

Outflying aromatic winds o'er head. 

No more despair a gloomy land o'er cast. 

Each mountain vale fast woke with rally blast; 

Each vineyard, olive grove, gave forth its band 

Of swordsmen to consume a ruined foe. 

Phoenicia warred; every border land 

With rapture hailed Assyria's overthrow — 

O'er whelmed its fugitives with cruel h%nd. 

Of air those fearless clans who came in wrath — 

In savage pomp — on Glory's crimson path. 

To scourge a world with wild invasion's woes — 

The flower of all Asia's martial brood; 

At home in strife and restless of repose; 

In warfare, scornful of intrepid foes. 

Whose trail was desolation, solitude — 

A remnant vain, in courts of royal pride, 

Confessed with shame where famous armies died. 

A thrill of joy passed o'er the Tyrian sea; 

The shores, the waves, the frighted earth were free. 

In palmy Nineveh strange scenes prevailed. 
Fear filled ancestral halls, imperial seats, 
Pale seers of Bel, who breathed of Heaven's ire, 
In frenzy drove their slaves of Sacred Fire. 
Fierce armed swarms the palace wall assailed, 
The troops, inflamed o'er infamous defeats. 
The concourse joined, or at its fury quailed. 
The tyrant mused in gloomy pomp alone. 
His cohorts fell, his revel heroes fled. 
Sun-worship clans poured o'er the portals red — 
They slew Assyria's monster on his throne. 



JUDITH 29 

Three thousand years have passed — how fair the name 

Of Judith still in tragic lustre shines, — 

In fadeless glory — o'er the stars of fame 

That each receding age to earth resigns. 

No mist obscures the martial bays she won 

Because her beauty served most high designs. 

Ferocious was the foe she strove to bar, 

And all was fair in ruthless Asian war. 

O star Semiramis! how pale thy rays 

When orb of Judith burns with meteor blaze. 

In vast results, imperial hosts undone, 

She dims the laurels gods of war have won. 

From Nubia's wave to shores of Parthian sea. 

Her valiant arm set countless nations free. 



30 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

IN CUSTER'S HONOR 

PRIORITY OF PUBLICATION 

In 1893, to a leading Chicago firm, I submitted a manu- 
script of poems wherein was contained this one "In Custer's 
Honor." Afterwards, (1896), that firm issued "Custer And 
Other Poems, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox." Her Custer poem 
was similar to mine in methods, ideas, sentiment, length, 
meter and style of versification, and to the ordinary reader 
it would appear very much as though one poem suggested 
the other. The author who printed last would, of course, 
be viewed as an imitator. 

Unknown to these publishers, I had printed "my poem on 
General Custer many years previously, in the San Francisco 
"Chronicle." 

To any charge of imitating Mrs. Wilcox, I offer the defense 
of priority of publication. 



IN CUSTER'S HONOR 

Honor the Brave. — Napoleon 

Shall warlike songs no more be sung, 

Though humblest hands must seize the lyre? 

Shall Fame forget her trumpet tongue, 

And Glory quench her sacred fire? 

Shall deeds of arms no more inspire. 

Nor martial themes adorn the lay 

That woke applause in Homer's day? 

Alas! the times are basely cold. 

Unlike the brilliant race of old. 

Men worship at ignoble shrines; 

To venal hordes the bard resigns 

With silent lips his regal task — 

No martial strains the nations ask, 

No victors now in splendcy bask 

On thrones that kings in envy prize; 

No thrilling plaudits pierce the skies 

When signal notes to conflict call; 

The laurel wreath men now despise, 

The gloom of greed o'ershadows all; 

Across the path where conquest lies 

Grim Avarice uplifts its wall, 

Yet shall one voice defiant rise 

To celebrate a soldier's fall. 

Custer the brave! Star of the West— 
If martial souls can likened be 



IN CUSTER'S HONOR 

To peerless stars in heaven's crest 

That flash and glow in grand unrest 

When Night comes down on earth and sea- 

O gallant one, how few like thee 

Have leapt to fame in this dull age; 

How few illumed rich Honor's page 

With annals of so proud a chase; 

How few have run such high career 

In Glory's bright and dazzling race, 

Or fleetly won such lofty place, 

O knight without reproach or fear! 

Thy fields are fought, thy triumphs o'er; 
No more the thunders of the strife 
Will wake thy soul to keener life; 
No more the volleys hotly pour 
Along the ranks where swiftly speed 
Thy daring form and haughty steed. 
The white smoke of the massive guns 
Will rise no more to southern suns 
Where voice of thine breaks on the air. 
Or war winds kiss thy trailing hair. 
No more thy sword will gleam and shine 
In midst of square, in front of line. 
Nor thy proud lips, with fierce delight, 
Proclaim commands in moments dire 
Whereat the battle's waning fire 
Will glow anew with redder might, 
Nor thy dread skill, like Heaven's blight, 
O'erwhelm the foe that scorns to yield. 
Or hurl mad columns on his flight 
When triumph shakes the smoky field. 

The glory of those scenes is past. 

The terror and the dread import; 

No death wail floats upon the blast. 

No standards toss o'er held and fort; 

No gloomy fleets with iron walls 

Move up the quiet, inland streams; 

No hissing bolt of carnage falls 

To rouse the soldier from his dreams; 

No bugle through the green wood calls. 

Or missile o'er the rampart screams. 

At twilight, dusk or break of day 

No hosts in silence form array, 

Or in the pomp of martial pride 

Pour fearless from the mountain side, 

At noon's dread hour, in wrath condign. 

To break the foe's unconquered line; 

No white camps deck the crested hills, 

No music breaks across the plain; 

No startling deed the spirit thrills 



32 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

With exultation or with pain; 

Nor lurid flames the night illume, 

Nor horrors shame the ghastly day, 

Nor lands adorned with Summer's bloom 

Are smote with slaughter and dismay, 

But Peace smiles down from shore to shore — 

And Custer rides to death no more! 

His lion heart is quiet now. 
His fierce blue eyes are cold and dim; 
Though laurels twine his noble brow 
The voice of Fame is not for him. 
The form that ball and piercing blade 
So long in vain assayed to mar. 
Beneath the peaceful turf is laid. 
To lead no more the storms of war. 
The shock of arms, the earthquake tread 
Of countless hosts, the peal of strife, 
Might roar above his lowly head 
Nor thrill the hero back to life. 
And where he sleeps shall softer notes 
Waft gentler echoes to the gale, 
For there no lordly challenge floats. 
No cymbals clash, no foes assail; 
No cannon from their iron throats 
Hurl forth their clouds of burning hail. 
But tranquil skies and peace are there, 
And woman's voice is heard in prayer, 
Or pours in song with saddened strain, 
Low music o'er the mighty slain. 

'Tis meet that he should slumber so, 
Whose princely spirit never quailed 
When forward poured the threat'ning foe, 
But when the courtly truce prevailed, 
By deed and mien and gracious word 
He fleetly found a surer way 
To foemen's hearts than swiftest sword 
Could find in vortex of affray. 

His knightly blade forever sheath, 

His useless arms no more display; 

Hang on the wall his withered wreath, 

And wheel the silent guns away. 

The silken banner that the rain 

Has deeply dashed with streak and stain, 

That suns have marred and fire has singed. 

That balls have pierced and blood has tinged, 

That holy tears have sanctified, 

Fold thou away with mournful pride. 

Its dainty fringe of yellow gold 

Has rustled where War's surges rolled; 



IN CUSTER'S HONOR 33 

Its slender staff with brazen spear, 

With splintered sides and silver scroll, 

Has marked where brave men trod with fear, 

Or heroes rushed with thund'ring cheer 

To win the conflict's bloody goal. 

These are the spoils proud nations prize — 

Not massive heaps of yellow gold 

That slaves may dig or cravens mold, 

Or knaves amass from human sighs; 

These are the trophies dearer far 

Than conquests of colossal war. 

For these no fawning thief will bend 

To barter country, race or friend; 

There is no precious thing in these 

To tempt the greed of soulless men; 

The wind that sweeps the western seas, 

Whereon a thousand fleets have been. 

Hath never wafted merchant bark 

To distant shores with freight like this. 

The hellish purpose, deep and dark; 

Foul treachery, the Judas kiss, 

The blasting lie, the base design. 

Are not for spoils of Glory's shrine. 

Lo! Mammon's slaves will mock and sneer, 

And hold such relics vilely cheap. 

But find the land where Beauty's tear 

Dews not the turf where soldiers sleep; 

Where gold outweighs the gallant heart. 

And tinsel pomp outshines the bays ' 

The hero wins on battle days 

When Duty points his dreadful part; 

And find the land where rusts the sword 

That all untrammelled Greed may reign; 

Where navies rot that rogues may hoard, 

And rulers covet thrones for gain; 

Where ill-got wealth with vulgar scorn 

Derides the poet, sage and chief; 

Where spotless bays are rudely torn 

From honored brows that Daphne's leaf 

INIay basely crown some swollen thief — 

For that vile land what dastard craves? 

It is the future home of slaves! 

Shall scenes of warfare never cease 
In stormy forum — on the field 
Where Glory's lofty note is pealed? 
Man was not born for scenes of peace. 
All sacred is the martial zeal 
That bares the soldier's glossy steel — 
Impels him on, with heart aflame, 
In reckless quest of mortal fame. 



34 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Who turns the sword into a plow, 
May till the soil with gloomy brow, 
And fare him like his brother beast, 
That idle men of arms may feast. 
Whate'er we gain we combat for, 
As well we guard whate'er we keep. 
The tyrant comes when freemen sleep, 
• And spoilers prey 'neath sun or star. 
Our mother, Nature, teaches war; 
She spurs us on, but o'er the mind 
Let Reason pour its vivid light. 
True sons of Glory ever fight 
For some great welfare of mankind; 
For lofty purpose, race oppressed, 
For cause by after ages blessed. 
And leave immortal names behind. 
Though armed Wrong uprears his crest, 
Shall earth and all it holds be his? 
In any clime, in any land. 
The sword an honest weapon is, 
If seized by patriotic hand. 
Ill fares Oppression with its horde 
Of pampered slaves, its vaunted sway. 
Where freemen wear the ready sword, 
And have the spirit of affray. 
Heroes of old will fade away 
From Grandeur's pile or list of Fame, 
And he alone who boldly fights 
In Freedom's van, for human rights. 
Will have Humanity's acclaim. 
Yea, laurels fall from Heaven's height 
To crown the soldier of the Right. 
True heroes hold in sacred awe 
The mandates of their country's law, 
But spurn a brutal despot's whim. 
Nor count the cost that baffles him. 
Advance — O Human Race — advance! 
E'en though at times through storms of war. 
No more may Freedom, Glory, Chance, 
Be chained to Crime's triumphal car. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 35 

OX prairip:s avild 

PRELUDE 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness. — Coioper. 

Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! Blind 
guides which strain at a gnat and swallow a camel! Ye 
outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within are full of 
hyprocrisy and iniquity. Ye serpents! Ye generation of 
vipers! How can ye escape damnation of Hell? Ye are like 
unto whited sepulchres, which appear indeed beautiful with- 
out, but within are full of rottenness and dead men's bones, — 
Jesus Christ. 

Money, money, money! makes the man. — Pindar (2500 
years ago). 

If ye say ye love God, whom ye have not seen, and hate 
and oppress your brother, whom ye have seen, ye are liars 
and the truth is not in you. — Christ. 

"Oriental servility superseded pride; public spirit dis- 
appeared, patrotism was gone; literature lost its vigor; art 
deteriorated, money ruled; the people sunk into a nation of 
pedants, parasites and slaves." — DeiUnc of Greece. 



ON PRAIIMES VriLI) 
I 

This is the story of Glendare, 

Who lived upon a former day. 

He was not born to fortunes fair. 

But early clouds fell o'er his way. 

He had some foes who wrought him ill— 

They ruined him with crafty hand. 

He had no skill of self command, 

He had no rule but wild self will. 

He thought intense, and had strange moods 

That led him off to solitudes 

Where he met friends men do not see. 

They told him things that were to be, 

And things that yet will come to pass; 

They taught him arts of mystery. 

They loved him well, but they, alas! 

Could give to him no thing he craved. 

His mortal life was all enslaved, 

For powers of ill more strong than they 

Pursued him with relentless hate, 

And he would not their will obey. 

Or changed his mood when all too late. 

He trod the path of his own fate. 

Since all his sorrows were to be. 



36 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

I caught his life in rifts of dreams; 
In voices, thoughts, that came to me. 
All disconnected now it seems, 
Phantasmagoria, fitful gleams, 
But in it all was truth for me. 

II 
Where'er he turned he saw deceit 
Concealed in smiles to soon betray, 
And Shame he found in Honor's seat, 
And Vice in Virtue's chaste array. 
He found Religion oft a veil 
To screen the vile from utter scorn — 
A gilded sham, of Mammon born. 
To plunder on colossal scale, 
And sway mankind like serfs forlorn. 
He found that Falsehood reigned supreme; 
That justice was a poet's dream 
That faded fast to empty air 
Beneath Corruption's gorgon glare; 
And where Integrity should wait. 
Rank thieves he found installed in state. 
He could not bow at Power's call. 
Or kneel where jManhood bade him stand; 
He could not cringe and delve and crawl 
For senseless gold from Favor's hand; 
And yet he found that swollen wealth 
Could win what Genius may not gain; 
That bays were snatched by coward Stealth 
Where manly Force would strive in vain. 
He saw Pretension seize the place 
That sterling IMerit scarce could hold, 
And saw the world join in a chase — 
A frantic chase — for only gold. 
And Gold, he saw, ruled over all, 
Bought men as dealers buy their slaves; 
Prepared the way for Beauty's fall. 
Or cheated prisons of their knaves; 
Atoned for any crime or blot, 
Made right whatever once was wrong; 
Set Law — yea. Decency at naught. 
And made the hoary lecher strong. 
And social lines he fiercely found 
Set everywhere some hated bound 
To beat him back; there was no round 
That he might tread that did not lead 
To insult, slander, hate and greed. 
That he was base they could not plead; 
That he had robbed, or that his creed 
Conflicted with the Law's command; 
That he had raised a lustful hand 
At Innocence in hour of need, 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 37 

Or that Weakness had within his snare 
Been stricken down to perish there, 
And he had smiled to see it bleed — 
That he had wrought some murder grim. 
They could not say these things of him. 
His crime was worse a thousand fold — 
He had no hoarded heaps of gold. 
His vengeful soul in hate rebelled, 
And bitter as a cynic gray 
He cursed a social world that held 
Such hypocrites and beasts of prey. 

Ill 
On o'er wastes untamed and dread 
His lone and silent marches led; 
Wide stretched the plains, untouched by Man, 
Where still and solemn rivers ran; 
Green rose the woods beneath a sky 
That heard no sounds, and far and nigh 
Within the vast horizon's belt 
A world outspread, wherein there dwelt 
No throne of power to set aright 
The ruthless wrongs imposed by Might, 
Or wreaked by Hate or wrought by Lust; 
No safeguard that the weak might trust, 
No lofty court of last appeal; 
No law save that the rudest feel 
Within their hearts; naught to oppose 
Marauder's craft or ruffian's blows — 
Only Nature's grand repose. 
And if uncertain skies were black. 
And launched the cyclone on his track, 
He ever loved roused Nature's rage. 
He read, as from a written page. 
The signs she wrote on mountains hoar, 
On angry skies, on seas in pain, 
On rushing stream or beaten shore, 
On angry skies, on seas in plain. 
Where'er she wrote he loved to read; 
And if her tameless instincts chose 
The rending whirlwind for a steed. 
And sin-stained cities for her foes. 
He darkly feigned he saw no cause 
To pity where such chaos dwelt; 
Incensed at rules, restraints and laws. 
At Nature's shrine alone he knelt, 
And had some horror menaced Earth, 
Some scourge to sweep from land to land. 
Could he have stayed it at its birth, 
He had leapt forth with saving hand, 
But deemed the deed of little worth. 
Condemn such spirit if ye will — 



SON(;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

The world's rude lessons teach it still, 
And pride and bitterness combined, 
Confuse and warp the noblest mind. 
Where fiowers bloom the serpent hides. 
And kindness oft with ill abides. 
We hide our wounds as best we can — 
We cannot hate our brother man. 

IV 

The deep woods heard his axe's' stroke, 
His own strong arms laid low the oak; 
He shaped the logs, he cleared the spot. 
He reared alone his ample cot. 
He broke the sod, with easy speed 
He scattered wide the yellow seed; 
He covered well — his task was done, 
He left the rest to rain and sun; 
For further toil there was no need. 

How happy seems a woodland sage 

Who dwells content in humble cot. 

And drifts from youth to tranquil age, 

Nor ever pines for grander lot. 

No hopes insane or mad demands 

Disturb his brain, impel his hands. 

He little heeds the time that fUes. 

He is no serf his toil to waste. 

From morning red to ev'ning chaste 

Subservient to Wealth's decree. 

There is no king more truly free, 

More safe from tyranny than he. 

What petty lord has him arise 

Ere dawn illumes unfriendly skies. 

To drudge in pain that knaves may feast. 

May have their pageantry increased. 

Or bask in dissipation's blaze 

Through noisy nights and idle days, 

Or flaunt their robes from hall to den 

Before the eyes of better men? 

And where the lips that dare command? 

Or dare, with insolence of speech, 

Tyrannic sophistries to preach, 

Within the aisles so broad and grand * 

That gird his home with boundless reach. 

Green canopied by Nature's hand? 

Why should he slave? The land, the air. 

The woods, the game, are Heaven's care. 

The teeming fruits, the waters clear. 

That shine and glisten far and near. 

Are free for him to take or spare. 

The blue smoke curls above his roof, 

His lounging dogs keep vigils true; 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 39 

The savage beasts prowl far aloof, 
Or frightened fly his wild halloo; 
The flowers bloom for him to view; 
The grasses spring to bear his tread. 
Or catch the tinsels 'of the* dew; 
The bird that carols sweet o'er head 
His very step and presence knows. 
He fears no plots of baffled foes; 
His days are pleasure and repose. 
At truce with Fate and free of care. 
Thus idly mused morose Glendare. 



On Indian steed that bore him well 

He slowly rode o'er Prairie Land. 

From sapphire skies the sunlight fell, 

The summer atmosphere was bland; 

Full breezes cooled the sultry air; 

They roved o'er desert gardens fair, 

They scattered odors everywhere; 

They ceaseless roved; the tall green grass — 

It moved and ruffled like a sea. 

He watched the restless breezes pass; 

All round, the world was fair, was free 

As these light winds that came and went 

As though on task of joyance bent. 

Wild flowers waved of every hue 

From snowy white to livid flame. 

What if he knew them not by name? 

White or golden, purple, red, 

Each flower tossed its haughty head, 

And if they bloomed and bloomed anew 

On lonely heath, in hidden dell, 

Then faded and all withered fell 

Ere human eye could idly view, 

In loveliness they bloomed the same; 

They gemmed the boundless desert lea, 

And fed the wand'ring honey bee. 

Elysian skies smiled overhead; 
Unbounded plains in silence spread, 
To silence and to peace consigned. 
Silence is the womb of thought; 
The home, the garden of the mind. 
The spirit of the scene he caught, 
And slowly rode from spot to spot. 
The cry of wolf, the note of bird, 
The sigh of grasses gently stirred 
By balmy breath of soft south wind 
From torrid seas, alone was heard. 
Without a sound to wake or warn. 
In solitude great thoughts are born. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

As sunset nears, rich colors glow; 
The landscape dons a thousand dyes; 
Vermilion robes the western skies, 
Rich purples veil the hills below. 
Tints change andf mingte, flash and go; 
Bright opals fuse and crimsons flame, 
Till in its pomp recedes the Sun, 
And slowly brilliant Eve moves on. 

In Midnight's proud cathedral, 
Domed by the stars divine. 
He paid his homage humble 
At Nature's mighty shrine. 

VI 

In Autumn's gorgeous, golden clime 

All unsurpassed was Prairie Land — 

A wonder traced by Nature's hand. 

Replete with color. Scene sublime! 

How still the drowsy waste around; 

How sacred to eternal rest. 

In all the world there was no sound. 

The sun rays fell from Heaven's crest, 

They sunk on Nature's silent breast, 

And Beauty waved her magic wand. 

Where slender rivers stole their way 

Through gleaming heaps of desert sand — 

Their sinuous way like streams estray — 

Tremendous bluffs of primal rock. 

High flung by subterranean shock. 

Were crowned with woods in florid dyes; 

In gaudy colors unexcelled, 

That dazzled, ravished mortal eyes. 

No human hand hath ever held 

A cunning brush to paint like this. 

Vain thy skill, presumptuous Man. 

Behold! and rival if you can. 

The landscape swoons at Nature's kiss. 

It seems a home of placid bliss 

For nymphs and gods of days of Eld. 

Where slow the stream the quick-sand laves, 
'Mong cliffs and crags, in secret caves. 
Hide outlaws rude or Indian braves. 

Majestic Nature sits in calm — 

For weary minds has blessed balm. 

Yet here the cyclone wheels its course, 

The whirlwind wields its awful force. 

Yon stream that shuns its doubtful shores. 

At times a swollen river pours; 

A flood gigantic, furious, wild. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

Its wall of waves on upland piled; 
The cloud-burst falls with sudden might 
And fills the vale with surges white. 
Like passions of the human race, 
The elements this holy place 
Do mar, and every scene debase. 

Vast prairie fires fiercely range 
The region o'er, fanned by the gale, 
And all its flowery fronts assail, 
And all its vernal beauties change. 
Wild creatures fly or fall in flame; 
The hunter flies or falls the same. 
Then smoke and cinders, blackened heath, 
Are all that lie the heavens beneath. 
Where Beauty, Goodness, love to stray 
There Evil comes in quest of prey. 
'Twas ever thus since Eden's day — 
The fate of earth and mortal clay. 
Great power tends to deeds of wrong; 
The brave must meet and fight the strong. 
With good and ill all things are rife. 
How Passion clouds the noblest brain. 
And blights and stains the proudest life. 
Self indulgence and excitements vain 
Swift bring destruction in their train. 
Vice gives the strong man overthrow. 
The haughty, bold, audacious man 
Contrives in vain his daring plan. 
Vice breaks his force and lays him low. 
The prairie fire, the sheen of joy 
That overhangs the path of vice, 
But shine to ravage and destroy — 
The foes of welfare and of life. 

Indian Summer! Glorious moon! 

And all the stars, how wondrous bright — 

Glittering orbs of splendid Night! 

The air is warm as northern June; 

As pure, as clear, as dry and light 

As fills a sultry afternoon 

Where lotus-eaters lounge at ease 

Divorced from thoughts that do not please — 

From olden griefs and memories — 

On fabled isles of southern seas. 

VII 
It soothed Glendare to idly gaze 
At mid of night, at noon's high blaze. 
In glens, in mighty solitudes. 
He revelled in poetic moods; 
By surging flood or dwindling brook, 
He read the lore of Nature's Book; 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

He sought it in Night's radiant skies, 

But mocking stars gave no replies. 

In thought and meditations long 

He pondered Story's page of wrong — 

Recital of the reign of brutes 

That strutted earth in human form. 

And wrought their lusts and had their will 

Till vengeance bore its bitter fruits, 

And Horror had its bloody fill. 

The earth was but a robber's den. 

He pitied all his fellow men. 

He saw the triumph of the strong; 

With hate, with scorn, with impulse warm, 

He saw that Right too often fell 

At stroke of Power's brutal arm — 

That lands became a smoky Hell 

That sword and crown and mitre grim 

Might league for gold, and iron sway; 

In Christ's high name might burn and slay. 

What monstrous crimes are laid to Him! 

Greed, Fanaticism, Tyranny — 

Triple monsters born of Hell! 

Relief to turn to prairies free 

And view their balmy pageants well. 

Fowls of the air, when Man intrudes. 

Signal and fly in friendly broods; 

Steeds of the plains, in wintry weather. 

Form in friendly bands together. 

Like the wolf he tames and loves alway, 

Man makes his brother man a prey. 

Historian Gibbon, writer grand. 

His glowing pen at last resigned. 

His stately work of brain and hand — 

Rich reflex of his noble mind 

And gen'rous heart, he hoped might live. 

Yet called it but a narrative 

Of crimes and follies of mankind. 

'And justice, sir," he sadly said, 

"Is theory — a fiction dead." 

An envious, jealous, hateful breed 

Of mortal pygmies fight and bleed 

To sate their souls with boundless greed. 

The cultured man, despite his gains 

In outward grace and bookish lore. 

Too often unredeemed remains — 

Is brutal savage as before. 

Heed not vaneer and outward grace. 

But view him as a flunkey base. 

Or tyrant of his helpless race. 

Though platitudes may sound the worth 

Of rogues triumphant, villians bold, 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 43 

The simple truth must yet be told: 
No golden age has had its birth. 

A glory in the autumn skies 
O'ercomes all Prairie Land. 
In sunset pomps of dazzling dyes 
The vast orb in the distance lies, 
And showers beams like golden sand. 
Its colors change — a million hues 
Transform, relight, float off, confuse. 
If red to deepest purple grows, 
Soon all is gold; then orange flows 
Jn billowy masses without end 
*Till richer tints and colors blend. 
Every hue that decks the rose. 
Or tint that gilds the tropic sea, 
Arrays this orb of mystery — 
In vivid sheen and splendor glows. 
*rhe basking plains in joy admire, 
They smile at sunset's liquid fire. 
Vast luminary! that light affords 
To grateful earth and sister stars. 
What wonder that barbaric hordes 
Appealed to thee in ancient wars; 
In thee beheld a god indeed — 
In daily view before men's eyes — - 
A childish yet a simple creed. 
Since all that lives, or moves, or dies. 
On thee for heat and life relies. 

I 
Coronado rode this endless plain, 
And o'er it led his mail clad knights 
To seize it for imperial Spain. 
They saw the bison's mighty flights 
From north to south and back again. 
With firearms and trusty lance 
And brazen shield, they made advance. 
They viewed the savage with disdain. 
Then came the chivalry of France, 
With empire's lust and boundless claim. 
American knights adventured here — 
Houston, Bowie, Carson and Sevier; 
Men of high, impetuous will — 
Stern zealot Brown, eccentric Lane, 
Harney, Cody, Custer and Wild Bill. 
Their gypsy blood impelled them on; 
Full soon all foreign flags were gone. 
'Mong western lords of virgin earth 
George Rogers Clark will shine for aye. 
What bard will dare extol his worth 
In hasty, unpretentious lay? 
Immense events he set in play! 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A grateful land applauds his name. 
Zebulon Pike! far in the West 
A gorgeous mountain rears its crest — 
Forever keeps his martial fame. 

Men's lives — how great the import seems 
To each; he toils, he deeply schemes, 
Then dies upon some lonely spot, 
Leaves dust and bones— and he's forgot. 
A trillion mortals pass away — 
They vanish like a smothered flame, 
A falling star of summer's night — 
And leave to earth their useless clay, 
Ere History records a name. 
Or lifts a single deed to fame. 
How vain Ambition's anxious quest. 
'Twere wise to vanish like the rest. 
Thus mused the desert anchorite, 
Yet could not keep this truth in sight, 
Nor play such craven part aright. 

On Syrian sands, old annals tell, 

Dwelt crazy dupes, fanatics lean. 

In tents and huts and holes unclean, 

Fulfilling vows and plans unwise 

In hope to merit Paradise 

"By making troublous earth a Hell." 

Howe'er imperious hearts rebel. 

The noblest place for man to dwell. 

His proper home, it seems to me. 

Is where his duty bids him be. 

For peace, repose, and mental rest, 

The flow'ry solitude is best. 

The nymphs and gods, in days of yore, 

Sought not the crowded haunts of men. 

They lingered in some leafy glen. 

On mountain slope or ocean shore. 

On fields with flowers all aflame; 

They vanished when a mortal came. 

Our fellow man, when at his best. 

Not always proves a welcome guest. 

We look him o'er with scornful smile; 

His hard conditions makes him vile. 

Raised out of Fate's unfriendly groove, 

His tendency is to improve. 

Creeds decay. Superstition fails — 

The brotherhood of man prevails. 

Life is war — its trials weather. 

Help your faint or wounded brother, 

Face the battle's earthquake thunder. 

Fight the brutes that keep the nations under. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 45 

VIII 
In this weird zone do wizai'ds dwell; 
Around me now they cast a spell. 
Along the highland's hazy lines 
Far off, remote, a city shines; 
A Rome, a Nineveh, I see 
With gates and walls of majesty, 
With citadels of princes great, 
And palaces of royal state. 
Lo! where yon misty cloudlet lies 
Are battlements — and cliits arise. 
What rich illusions meet the eye. 
Clear lined against a golden sky — 
All mural pomp, the pride of kings, 
The grandeur of all mortal things. 
And on the plain, in easy view, 
Are lakes and pools and rivers bright. 
For famished beast or plainsman true. 
What rippling fountains now invite. 
O vain mirage! how like the dreams 
We have of life when life is new. 
Then fair the rosy future seems. 
Our thoughts how free and cares how few; 
Each field with high achievement teems. 
So Fancy paints our path ahead 
Till hopes and garlands all are dead. 
And shall we sigh? Shall curses fall 
From scornful and embittered lips? 
Accept the common lot of all. 
And only smile at Life's eclipse. 

IX 

A cavalcade of Indians came, 
Led by a chief of widest fame. 
They rode at speed with graceful pride, 
Xnd formed a strange, a warlike scene. 
Their shields of white of bison hide 
Swung loosely at each rider's side. 
Or poised across his swarthy breast. 
His rifle lay at ready rest; 
Aloft were glittering lances keen. 
Nearly naked rode they all; 
Stirrups, saddles, had they none. 
Against the prairie's vernal wall 
They formed a pageant in the sun. 
No idle hunt allured that day; 
They waged an internecine fray. 
The pale face now was not their foe. 
In tribal feud they planned a blow. 

The War Chief used no polished words. 
But knew the language of the birds; 



46 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Could imitate tlie wolf's lone cry- 
In signal that a foe was nigh; 
Unskilled in any bookish art, 
Without a compass or a chart, 
Could fleetly pass the desert o'er 
And find at last the shallow stream, 
And camp in comfort on its shore; 
Could duplicate the panther scream. 
The wounded bison's threat'ning roar. 
Weird screech of owl or coyote yell; 
Could trail the deer or antelope, 
And far beyond his horoscope 
Could scent a peril moving nigh. 
Unlearned in books, unlettered quite. 
He yet was trained, a prairie knight — 
For his rude life was fitted well; 
Thoughts he had, reflective mind — 
This dauntless leader of his kind. 
Well might his war-whoop terrify, 
So loud and keen, or wild or shrill. 
For in it pealed his savage will 
To hasten strife, to fight, to kill; 
To riot o'er the captive's fate. 
To torture, burn — fiend incarnate! 
There was no limit to his hate. 
Hereditary instinct made him so. 
He ne'er forgot a friend, forgave a foe. 

In words and phrases not our own, 
(Though well the meaning one might take,) 
In friendly truce — in chat alone. 
Thus freely to Glendare he spake: 

"The Indian is a cavalier, 
A forest ranger, desert lord; 
A sportsman free without a fear, 
A soldier, sentry, on his guard; 
A chieftain proud or vassal brave. 
The pale-face is a drudge, a slave. 
He digs in earth with heavy tool. 
To make the torn-up soil produce — 
To only prove himself a fool — 
For all his toil there is no use. 
Unfilled by man the frontiers yield 
Abundant meats and luscious fruits. 
These plains o'erteem with fatted brutes, 
Wild fowl abound and fish infest 
The mountain lake and midland pool. 
The Indian's life is far the best. 
Like prairie dog or gopher base, 
Far burrows down the sad pale-face 
In anxious quest of buried ore 



ON PRAIRIES WILD . 47 

To pile away in secret store. 

He hazards life and ruins health 

To hoard away such sordid wealth. 

What profit from his toil proceeds? 

We scorn the dirty life he leads. 

Jehovah, the white man's god. 

Feeds fat on gold and human blood; 

He robs the native Indian race 

To put his people in their place — 

To glut the greed of the fierce pale-face. 

In hosts these greedy strangers come, 

They sow their grain on Indian graves; 

They bring us baubles, Bibles, rum— 

A few are lords, the rest are slaves. 

All free, as yet, are Indian braves." 

Pleased with his views thus Glendare spoke: 

'The lords of men are secret foes. 

Agreeing now, then plotting woes. 

Their dupes? Trained animals in clothes. 

From acorn small springs up the oak 

That falls before the axe's stroke. 

Far off the time when changes cease. 

It is unhappy human lot. 

As nations thrive new ills increase. 

Nowhere the land where ills are not. 

The purpose of the Universe 

No mortal brain will ever solve. 

Upon us lies no primal curse, ^ 

But not for us the stars revolve. 

What the mighty panorama means 

Is hid behind eternal screens. 

Wild creatures of the tangled wood 

In terror live, in torture die. 

Their lot demands fierce hardihood. 

They snare, they tear, they feast on blood, 

They perish when they may not fly. 

From very birth this is their fate. 

They cannot change this rueful state. 

Man preys on them; he claims the right. 

His claim alone is brutal might. 

And brutal might is all the law ^ 

That Man applies to fellow men. 

By craft and force, by tricks that awe. 

By knavery and subtle brain 

O'er humbler men he gathers rein. 

And breeds of men their force employ 

To rob, o'erwhelm, enslave, destroy. 

The weaker race must lose a land 

The stronger race would fain enjoy. 

No deity has made command 

That this should be; on every hand 



48 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

We see it flaming in our sight 

That all must bow to ruthless might. 

Since dawn of time this rule has been^ 

The weak must yield to stronger men. 

A wretched race that will not fight 

Must bow the knee to brutal might. 

Jehovahs bring the world distress; 

The gods have all been merciless, 

Fomenting strife and grievous pain; 

They come to curse and not to bless — 

These dragons of the human brain. 

Each one a while holds ruthless reign, 

Then wanes away to nothingness. 

Anon a spectre frights again, 

Of different form, with different name; 

His bloody instincts are the same. 

For power, gold and royal place, 

His haughty minions ply their game. 

Our sages find abundant trace 

That fathers of the Indian race 

Swept mighty monuments away 

Greater than we have to-day. 

We cannot place a blame at all. 

But evil brothers are we all. 

Civilizations rise — to fall! 

Their weight, injustice, racial strife, 

Their factions, luxury and pride. 

Sap away their inward life; 

They lose their prowess — empire wide. 

When Caesar reigns without a friend, 

He totters to his bloody end. 

Men weary of what's false to all; 

They gladly see the fabric fall. 

In circles do these changes move. 

This truth all storied records prove. 

A race prevails, supreme, and then 

Reverts to savagery again. 

The land that rules all mortal men 

Becomes at last the lion's den. 

The masses rise, o'ercome their kings. 

And rend to dust all former things. 

Fr£)m each restraint they gain release, 

Destruction thus to all is brought." 

In council grave, exchanging thought, 

They smoked at ease the Pipe of Peace. 

X 

'Far down the woods the black night fell; 
The restless lightnings blazed and flashed. 
And strewed the skies with hues of Hell, 
Or through the moaning forest crashed. 
Scathing a way through tangled shades. 



ox PRAIRIES WILD 49 

Cleaving the oaks like lindens frail; 
Rebounding from their burning raids, 
Then dying on the midnight gale. 
The angry thunders surged and rolled 
Like volleys of contending gods; 
The rains swept down in torrents cold, 
And bowed the trees like trembling rods. 
The scared deer hid in dripping dells, 
The panther ceased his hungry yells 
And slunk within his jungled lair; 
The wolves fled frantic in the glare 
That smote the earth and deluged air, 
And all fierce things ignored their prey 
Since Chaos seemed resuming sway. 

Lost in storm, in darkest night; 

Brave indeed, yet filled with fright, 

She far off saw his cabin's light. 

Her faithful steed responded well, 

And while the tempest round her fell, 

Went rushing on through wild uproar. 

And safely reached his cabin door. 

With deep surprise and ready zeal, 

He welcome gave to quick appeal. 

Her charger housed and she at rest, 

She was at once an honored guest. 

The rudest lair seemed safe escape. 

Her throat was spanned with chains of gold. 

Rich jewels flasiied in brilliance cold 

On dainty hands of faultless shape. 

Disheveled o'er her snowy breast, 

And round her shoulders' perfect lines, 

Like thunder clouds along the west 

When low the sun in setting shines, 

Her dense black locks in masses streamed, 

Wet with the strong tornado's breath, 

"Thick hedging in a face that beamed 

With light and love, as saints have dreamed 

The pure shall have when freed by death — 

A sweet, refined, expressive face. 

And yet whereon the eye could trace 

Some signs of power, slumb'ring still 

In silent strength, yet quick to rise 

If summoned by a firm set will 

Veiled in her beauty's silken guise. 

Her story brief — far in the east. 

Beyond the woods and prairies free. 

Where rock-reared bluffs in grandeur flank 

The southward rolling inland sea — 

Where fleets float on the billows blue. 

And winds are fair and isles are few, 

And sunbeams fall on clouds of steam, 



so SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Or flash and glance from dripping oars; 

Where Commerce crowns the boundless stream, 

And cittes line the rival shores, 

And vineyards spread with vigor rank 

O'er lands that groan with wealth increased; 

And Labor's bustle, roar, and clank 

Proclaim that all, from great to least, 

Must strongly toil with brain, or hand, 

Obedient to Fate's command. 

And toiling thus may win and feast — 

There was her home; in halls of pride, 

That looked afar o'er hill and tide. 

Without a wish ungratified, 

The queen of Fashion's petted throng 

She dwelt, her life a joyous maze 

Of bright and unembittered days. 

All intertwined with smiles and song. 

At length the woods and breezy plain, 

In contrast with her home of ease. 

Seemed like the green and glad domain 

Some heart-sick royal captive sees. 

Sad gazing through his prison screens 

While vironed round with choicest scenes. 

Her wayward fancy prone to please, 

With gallant guard and ample train 

She crossed the prairies wide as seas. 



XI 

Apart the joyless hermit stood 

With folded arms, in evil mood. 

For dark temptations filled that solitude. 

The maid reclined, absorbed in thought. 

Unconscious that her beauty wrought 

Within his brain a maddened spell. 

And that his gaze upon her fell 

As merciless as fiendish Hell, 

Feeding the source from whence it came- 

Feasting like a treacherous flame 

Upon the pyre that gives it life — 

Insensate, lawless, heartless, rife 

With mad thoughts that impetuous rise 

In burning youth, unveiled by sighs. 

Yet panoplied in hues of love. 

As the serpent glares on the dove 

That cannot fly its poisoned fangs. 

And yet forbears to strike, and hangs 

Above its prey, content to know 

It cannot 'scape the deadly blow. 

So stood he there, his impulse blind 

Holding his soul in abject thrall. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

Mind oft can converse, hold with mind 
Though not a word from lips may fall; 
To speak, not language may require, 
But eyes can flash magnetic fire — 
Can blaze with purpose and desire. 
Transmitting shafts of viewless might 
That shock the dormant brain they smite, 
And rouse it up, as hosts at night 
Spring from fields of doubtful fight 
When loud alarms the bugles call, 
And bolts of vengeance hissing fall. 

She started like the hunted deer, 

When swift the baying hounds advance; 

She trembled with a nameless fear. 

And, turning, met his threafning glance; 

Then, nerved by some strange strength, she rose, 

And stood erect — a perfect queen — 

Unbounded was emotion's reach, 

And with Zenobia's tragic mien 

She coined her proud contempt in speech. 

He heard her not — he only saw 

A grandeur in her stormy eyes 

That touched his guilty soul with awe 

Too deep for demon to despise — 

A purity that seemed sublime. 

More portent far to banish crime 

Than great Jehovah's sternest law, 

Or ]\Ian's most pitiless decree. 

O, more magnificent her rage 

Than richest canvas could reflect : 

So warm with youth, as wise as age. 

And bitter as o'erweening pride 

With sense of deepest wrong allied, 

Or sudden hatred could direct. 

Unused to polished beauty's wiles 

Her anger moved him more than smiles. 

From such as she no servile prayer 

Was needed to escape his snare; 

Her scathing words were swifter far 

To reach his heart than strong appeal; 

They played like brightly burnished steel — 

Blazing rancor could not mar 

Their fine effect, nor force him feel 

One vengeful impulse in return. 

By nature swift, by training stern, 

Implacable, quick to resent. 

Too proud to pity or repent. 

The very courage of her will, 

The very fervor of her ire, 

Dazzled and disarmed him still. 

And bid him honor and admire. 



52 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

(Because the budding rose is fair, 

break not thou its fragile stem, 
Nor scatter on the wanton air 
The splendors of its diadem, 

But shield it with Love's gen'rous care — 
Earth may not lose her slightest gem.) 

xir 

In parting 'neath a forest oak 
These farewell words he gravely spoke: 
"To distant border wilds I came 
To hide defeat and sense of shame; 
At Nature's shrine to win relief 
From wounded pride and olden grief; 
To conquer vice and ponder o'er 
The golden truths of stoic lore; 
For safety, too; for mind's repose. 

1 left behind, embittered foes. 

By whom each cruel wrong was wrought, 

What ills I had now matters not. 

I planned to pass untroubled years 

In weaving strong, unlabored songs. 

Nor cared if cold and busy throngs 

Should e'er by me be moved to tears. 

Or lifted from the servile plane 

To which they must return again. 

I found all nature fresh and free; 

Companions here awaited me. 

I met the fierce things face to face, 

They lingered and were friends to me. 

The prairies green spread like a sea; 

The woods, the plains, enraptured me. 

Resigned was Glory's eager chase. 

By a clamorous world forgot 

Its vain, far tumult reached me not. 

My heart had burned with martial flame — 

O, greatness, power, brilliant name; 

Adventure, conquest, moved my brain — 

Romantic dreams and schemes insane! 

But times had changed; there was no peal 

Of trumpet loud, no gleam of steel 

Across the sunlit battle plain, 

No where was spot where I might reign. 

I had not found my proper place — 

My vantage point of high emprise — 

Among the wrangling hordes of men; 

I turned away. These desert skies. 

These woodland shades, were pleasant then. 

I found the peace that sages seek; 

The self same peace, and all unbought, 

Of which the sons of Fortune speak 

Yet ne'er enjoy. That envied prize 

For which the weary monarch sighs. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

For which the rich man piles his gold; 
For which the miser hoards his spoil; 
That tempts the weak and spurs the bold- 
The purpose of all mortal toil. 
I dwelt content till that fierce night 
Your presence filled my home with light. 
No keen reproach my Hps employ, 
My bosom holds no vain regret. 
I would not give the hours of joy 
That I have known since first we met 
For gems that deck a Sultan's brow. 
But feelings strange oppress me now, 
Nor sighs avail. This lonely heart 
Must deeply mourn that e'er we met. 
Since now we must forever part. 
Adieu, sweet friend! our march is done. 
In happier scenes, with pleasures gay, 
Think sometimes of an absent one 
On boundless prairies far away." 

XIII 
Not long he mourned the lady's flight. 
He felt at eve, or solemn night. 
That from his life a joy had gone, 
A pleasantry, a wondrous charm — 
A brilliant page to muse upon 
With soft and melancholy thought. 
That boded of some future harui. 
Or menaced peace of present lot; 
But transient was the sorrow light. 
Too much of evil had he borne. 
To care for petty cross like this. 
He smiled anon in very scorn. 
A barren life indeed if bliss 
Is builded on a woman's smile; 
And yet she caused unrest a while. 
He pondered of the world afar, 
Its greatness and eternal war. 
Then sighed for prowess — golden sway — 
To hold its multitudes at bay; 
To conquer, baffle, selfish men; 
To lead in uproar and affray. 
His olden genius woke again. 

A child of Nature, Pagan, he; 
A cynic, doubter, skeptic free, 
He yet invoked pale Destiny: 

"Come forth from out the forest green — 
From out its deepest, darkest shade — 
O Destiny, mysterious queen 
Of powers known but swayed unseen. 



54 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

And speak once more with royal mien. 

Where are my future fortunes laid? 

Shall stern defeats continue mine, 

Or do the golden laurels shine 

Which yet one day these hands will seize 

And press upon my fevered brows? 

She answers not. The drowsy breeze 

Comes sighing from the woodlands deep; 

The wildwood monarchs toss their boughs 

In mockery, or clad in gloom 

Seem shrouded in eternal sleep; 

The sultry zephyrs slowly steep 

The air in oceans of perfume." 

Far happier the savage hind 
Who plans but for an idle day. 
Than he whose fierce, unrestful mind 
O'er mighty schemes must brood alway; 
Who knows not peace, nor yet can find 
His tow'ring path with danger fraught; 
Who worships with devotion blind 
The goddess Fame, who heeds him not. 
Most weird and strange, unhappy doom — 
Ambition's fires his soul consume. 

Though Nature soothes each passing mood, 

And comforts Man in solitude. 

She has no rest. The roses bloom, 

The summers pass, the dead leaves fall; 

Unsullied snows envelop all — 

Then with the breath of balmy deeps, 

Far from the South the warm wind sweeps; 

The dull gray sky pours down its rain 

And changing earth grows green again, 

Yet all its greenness and its bloom 

But herald storms and wintry gloom. 

How sweet is rest! The whole earth groans 

With heavy toil; the still flood sighs, 

The weary ocean moves and moans, 

The summer wind a sadness owns — 

Upon the rose's heart it dies. 

Amid the din of daily strife. 

The competition and the strain 

Of strength, ambition, nerve and brain — 

The dizzy whirl of busy life — 

How oft we long for deep content. 

Revolt from cares that but increase. 

And dream of scenes of utmost peace. 

No vulgar despot could invent 

A tyranny of such deep skill 

To torture us, as fierce desires 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

Combined with an unyielding will, 

And energy that never tires. 

And yet the rest for which we sigh 

Would be affliction keener far 

Than frenzied toil for purpose high, 

Or bold Ambition's vainest war. 

Some men are born to have and hold. 

And some are born by force to win. 

These latter are of such a mold 

That Eden scarce could gird them in 

If there- no field for them were found. 

No place of strife, no battle ground. 

Fierce action is the living breath 

Of master souls — repose is death. 

Green solitude and Nature's hush 

Recall ambition once again, 

And in the fury and the crush 

Of battling crowds, where strength and brain 

Alone can rule or gather gain. 

There is the place for man to reign. 

A tender sadness may surround 

Some scene that gave us only joy. 

But haughty pleasure oft is found 

In lingering o'er some battle ground 

That sternest ardors did employ. 

XIV 

Had I the boasted wealth of Ind, 

If millions moved at my command 

As leaves fly on October's wind. 

Or sands glint on the ocean strand. 

To goddess Change there would arise 

A shining pillar to the skies — 

Of art imperishable and grand. 

A vast memorial would I build 

In honor of the goddess Change; 

A stately shaft, whose templed base 

Would shine with architectural grace, 

And glitter till the air was filled 

With brilliance from such noble place — 

A glorious shaft to goddess Change — 

Ornate from hands supremely skilled 

In all of art that mortals know; 

In all that Genius finds a range 

To light with supernatural glow; 

A monument of human toil 

That age on age would fail to spoil. 

Full fair 'twould shine in rich sunlight 

Till endless eons took their flight. 

This would I do for goddess Change. 

What joy to leave each scene effete. 

The tiresome haunts we secret hate; 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

The sights to us no longer sweet, 
The places dull where trials wait; 
Where pleasant hours no days afford, 
Or where, mayhap, some petty lord 
Assumes o'er us to wield a sw^ay — 
Insulting chief of but a day. 
What joy to fling restraints away, 
To wave to loathsome scenes adieu; 
To fly at once and far away, 
And meet no more each troublous view. 
New friends, new scenes; old ills forgot, 
Enchantment fills the new-found spot, 
And makes the pensive stranger gay. 
Though oft at Wealth we must inveigh, 
'Tis gold that buys this happy lot; 
It gives us wings to haste away 
Where hateful cares and griefs are not. 
Though far the reckless truant range 
Through Eldorado's region strange. 
With grateful joy his voice is fraught: 
"All hail! our happy goddess Change.' 

Wanderlust! It stirs the blood 

Till stagnant pool is raging flood, 

Till peace is fled and tumult reigns. 

From those bleak plains, those Orient plains 

Of utmost East, of Bactrian fame, 

Our restless Aryan fathers came. 

O'er other lands they poured in swarms. 

With battle cry and trenchant arms; 

They bore their way where'er they willed, 

For courage high their bosoms filled. 

And arts and arms and martial pride 

And liberty marched by their side. 

Where wild the Aryan clarion rung. 

The light of Civilization sprung. 

Laws and freedom, glory, art and song, 

Whate'er to noblest scenes belong. 

From restless Wanderlust were born. 

Each stated toil repulse with scorn. 

With hate regard familiar haunts, 

Despise the despot's haughty taunts. 

Defiance wave to foes around. 

And cross the designated bound. 

One joy is left from barren years. 

To fling aside our paltry fears. 

And spring to arms and still advance 

Where Wanderlust each soul enchants. 

New lands, new scenes, we choose to range. 

Let timid hearts incline to peace 

And fondly hug their olden chains. 

Our lips demand a swift release. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

Full freedom now and ceaseless change. 
This be our code while life remains. 

These thoughts, these moods, awoke Glendare. 
They floated on the listless air; 
Ay, came in echoes from the wood, 
In murmurs from each solitude. 
In songs of birds, in smothered cry 
Of wolf or beast that hurried by; 
In rippling of the foamy stream. 
All things destroyed his olden dream 
Of rest and peace and tranquil thought 
Forever born on one lone spot. 
'Seek you the grave," the light wind said, 
'And find your peace with people dead. 
No voice disturbs a dead man's grave. 
Vain fool, arouse! to grieve no more; 
This world was made for wild uproar. 
Away! Away! to cities great 
To find a joy in fierce debate. 
In stern resolve, in manly strife. 
In purpose won, triumphant hate — 
Excitement is the boon of life." 

His heart obeyed with rapture wild. 

Once more he roved as Fancy's child. 

He passed where lands in beauty smiled. 

Great cities tired — he crossed the seas. 

And loved their billows undeflled. 

Their wondrous pomp; in moods like these 

He worshipped, like mad votaries 

Of airy gods that men obey; 

The elements he saw in play, 

Unawed he viewed the whirlwind storm; 

Tremendous force, in any form, 

He loved alway, nor cared what harm 

Or ghastly wreck bestrewed its way. 

'Tis Nature's plan — no dainty course — 

To have its will with awful force, 

And in each petty human iray 

'Tis Force, impetuous, achieves the day. 

He roamed at will from coast to coast. 
Through nations new and countries old; 
The tropic lands appeased him most, 
For withered Earth is growing cold. 
No more it spreads a flowery fold; 
The great Sun wanes from lack of heat; 
Faint fall its rays, and Nature's doom 
Will make of Earth an icy tomb. 
Still, still where tropic scenes unfold 
Neglected Earth is clad in bloom — 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Our qiiiv'ring, trembling, crumbling Earth 

Where scanty joys have had their birth, 

Where countless miseries consume. 

By Man's misfortunes oft confused, 

And with resolve to place the blame. 

In crowded capitals he mused. 

In olden lands of ancient fame. 

Where now fair children gaily romp. 

He saw proud armies pass in pomp. 

For War had left its trail of fire. 

Such thrilling scenes bid him admire. 

He trod the fields of former days 

Where chivalry won meed of praise; 

Where crowns were lost, or human rights 

Were won with swords in splendid fights. 

Regardless if the fray was fair, 

He honored all who struggled there. 

He stood beside Napoleon's tomb, 

For whom the millions bravely died — 

With reverence and martial pride, 

While voices filled the storied air. 

He cast an humble chaplet there. 

Howe'er the maudlin flunkeys rave, 

The right divine of kings is laid — 

Sliattered, broken, shame-arrayed — • 

Deep in Napoleon's grave. 

XV 
On, still on, pursued Glendare 
His restless, reckless, careless way. 
With revel, idleness, with pleasures gay 
He sought in vain and everywhere 
For one choice thing — his heart's content. 
To few this mortal gift is sent. 
Though nameless in the human crowd 
As proud as Lucifer he kept, 
Nor ever o'er misfortunes wept — 
That wound but cannot tame the proud. 
To every wayward mood resigned, 
Boliemian, and oft a sage. 
He pondered all that might engage 
His thoughtful eye, receptive mind. 
Full oft he paused from sinful sport 
To brood o'er things of deep import. 
He studied men with keen intent, 
In quest of trace of ray divine. 
He saw them waste their gold in wine. 
In lust, in follies without name 
That pass the line of utmost blame. 
He cursed their inclinations base — 
Their madness in such idle chase. 
Thus went they on till youth was past. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

And woeful wreck befell at last. 
Impatient with such brutal traits, 
With selfishness and instincts low, 
He thought 'twas wise their varied fates 
Were harsh, and recompense was slow 
For all they did, or sought to know. 
He longed a monarch's sword to wield, 
To wear a despot's gilded crown; 
'And these?" he said with hateful frown, 
'Fit food for Slaughter's bloody field." 
Ah! too extreme. Man's fate is hard. 
Conditions bind him to his place; 
They grind him to a lot ill-starred, 
They rob him of his native grace. 
In vilest wretch some good is found 
That points him to sublimer ground; 
Some gen'rous trait, some touch of pride. 
Where manhood has not wholly died. 
Immersed in vice, he yet would rise 
From impotence all men despise. 
But lacks, alas! the innate force 
To bear him from his evil course. 
Though faulty, greedy, brutal oft. 
He lifts his weary eyes aloft 
And rues the mournful day he fell 
In power of a siren spell. 
Your brother, he — and aid him well. 
No rule absolves the sordid' heart 
From acting out this manly .part. 
Though former semblance all is gone, 
Raise him up and push him on. 
Howe'er old maxims are revered. 
In classes men are born and reared, 
By mould of heritage and fate; 
As varied each for ill or good 
As savage inmates of the wood: 
Each of a class like to his kind; 
Of worth or dearth, debased and blind. 
Or moved by most ambitious mind. 
The best of men are none too good — 
Are often then misunderstood. 
To even win what they desire 
Drivers, rulers, they require. 
Well is the border zone outlined 
Where intellect and thoughts refined 
True manhood lift from plane of brutes. 
In Education's noble fruits 
Is born supremacy of Mind, 
And armed Force must back the Law 
That keeps the crazy mobs in awe. 

So thought Glendare — in stately halls. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

In palaces, on castle height, 
Or by some mossy ruin's walls. 
Or on some city's mould'ring site. 
Or by some hoary bulwark steep, 
He moved in meditations deep. 
And tribute paid to other days. 
And where, arrayed with lavish hand, 
Art spread her marvels to the gaze, 
Each faithful to her secret laws. 
He tarried long at her command 
With kindling eye and mute applause. 

XVI 
Silence, solitude and Fancy's reign 
Brought peace to him and happy hours. 
But Memory assailed again 
To torture with malignant powers. 
In reckless mood, remorseful pain. 
He sadly penned this mournful strain: 
'Ah! years, how slow ye come and go 
For those whose hearts are weary quite. 
Can Time bestow a balm for woe 
When Hope has vanished from the sight? 
Yet happy they whose barren way 
Is decked no more with castles bright. 
That Fate's fell blow will shatter low 
Ere yet one day hath reached its night. 
O happy they whose fleeting May 
Has early lost its utmost bloom; 
Who spurn relief, and snatch from Grief 
Its sharpest pang, its keenest doom, 
By knowing all that can befall. 
Yet scorning all in haughty gloom. 
They waste no tears o'er bitter years, 
Nor ask that Hope shall e'er relume 
Its dying ray o'er their bleak way 
Like pyre that lights to some lone tomb. 
They've mastered lore that all before 
Have sadly learned, and all must know. 
And in mute pain, with calm disdain. 
They proudly, bear their weight of woe. 
Man's shattered idols strew his path 
Like wrecks flung on a beaten strand; 
They mock his hopes, they rouse his wrath, 
Yet vain he lifts his vengeful hand. 
Proud Nature scorns his weak disdain! 
Where shall he strike, with feeble pride, 
When winds his empty rage deride. 
And skies but smile at his mad pain? 
O, vain is youth — all vain is life 
To him on whom dark sorrows prey; 
And better war and bloody strife 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 

Than idle hours of gloomy day. 

The Past appalls — fell Memory, 

A vampire, feeds upon my soul. 

O that some power came to me 

To blot the Past's abhorrent scroll. 

O for acts beyond recall — 

The fatal choice of ills unknown; 

The maddened rush to Honor's fall, 

The cruel wrong, and Peace o'er thrown. 

No sorcery can build anew. 

Can dissipate these clouds of tears, 

Make pure the deeds I wildly rue. 

Or brighten deeply shadowed years. 

From ghosts of joy, in mute array, 

Remorse intense is mine alway. 

O, Pleasure, hast thou still a charm 

As potent as Lucullus found? 

Stretch forth a fair and glowing arm, 

And point to thy enchanted ground. 

I'll worship thee! Away with cold 

And dismal rules of monkish lore; 

Strange ecstasies reward the bold — 

Away with memories of yore; 

Let harps resound and cymbals clash. 

And gems above the dancers flash, 

And leafy boughs, beneath the moon, 

Droop down to hear illicit vows; 

I'll revel through my youth's gay noon, 

I'll make of life a long carouse — 

Yea, bow me to the drunken god. 

What boots it all when all is done? 

When one man's troubled course is run, 

And o'er him rolls the vernal sod? 

Lo! drink \vith me, companions brave, 

For they who moulder in the grave 

Are happier, all ills forgot. 

Than we who rove the foreign wave, 

Yet hasten on to that same spot." 

XVII 

In England's Babylon, to his amaze, 

He met the lady of his frontier days. 

A change — an awful one— had crossed her life. 

A maid no more — a spurned and fallen wife — 

Her choice had been mad Passion's shame; 

Her wealth was gone, her honor and her name. 

She sought, 'mong fallen creatures, ruined men, 

Forgetfulness of what had been. 

Yet kindly did she greet him — with a smile. 

In ghastly mirth they lingered there a while. 

'Twas dreary pleasure, weary joy; 

Abandon, pleasantry with deep alloy. 



62 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Each loathed to tarry where the other stood; 
Lest grief and tears might intervene, 
They pledged a glass with stoic fortitude, 
And laughed — he sadly left the noisy scene. 

XVIII 
Once more he crossed the boundless main, 
His native land he sought again. 
He toiled, he strove, with earnest men — 
For years he strove, but all in vain. 

Balked in Life's uncertain game, 
Back to the desert lands he came. 

A bitter grief was his, brave friends — 
The keen pangs of a baffled man 
Who stakes his life for dazzling ends. 
Nor yet achieves the glowing plan. 

From his restless, moody boyhood days 

Fame had been, had been his constant dream. 

While others wrought their idle plays. 

He strolled beside some sombre stream , 

In gloomy thought, with absent air, 

Depicting in his burning brain 

Broad fields illumed with Battle's glare. 

And swept with Death's relentless rain, 

And rocking 'neath the earthquake tread 

Of charging hosts, the deaf'ning roar 

Of thund'ring guns, while sunlight shed 

A spectral splendor o'er the scene of gore. 

And foremost 'mong the reckless riders there, 

Guiding the van with impetuous mien, 

And wrestling triumph from despair, 

His own wild form was grandly seen. 

And then he dreamed of awful cheers. 

The foe's imposing might o'er thrown; 

Applause of millions in their joyous tears, 

And Fame's unfading laurels all his om'u. 

And o'er and o'er this dream he dreamed; 

As time waned on from year to year. 

Such dazzling glory farther seemed 

At every step, until a fear 

O'ercame him — faith was lost, and Pride 

Despised the deeds that he had done — 

In high contempt it flung aside 

The humble chaplets he had won; 

Proud efforts failed; misfortunes came 

That broke his once imperial will; 

In clouds they came, till previous ill 

Seemed easy, light and tame; 

The wine cup then! and utter shame. 



ON PRAIRIES WILD 63 

'Tis Hell to feel within the mind 

Aspiring traits that lead to fame, 

And yet be fettered and confined 

In some base field prescribed and tame, 

Condemned to paths of servile shame. 

When had high Fortune been more kind. 

Not in the bondage of routine 

Had ardor lost its precious flame. 

But earth had trembled at your name, 

And wreathed it round with golden sheen. 

O had there dawned some fearful strife 

To strew the land with martial clay. 

How grandly had he bartered life 

To lead on some immortal day. 

Whine o'er woes, vain amorous crew — 

Make shrines and bow to sirens fair; 

In ecstasy muse of eyes of blue. 

Of bosoms white as Sierra snows. 

And peerless forms beyond compare, 

(In rival arms to soon repose 

Till roused by cold neglect and care); 

Lament that charms so warmly sought 

Should bless or curse some taunting foe; 

In savage wrath upbraid a lot 

That Heaven ne'er designed for woe — 

But ah! till ye know the racking throes 

That baffled ambition feels 

Talk not of grief. Love's passion grows 

Dead with time; a slight wound heals, 

But hopeless, burning thirst for fame 

Is quenched alone with a lifeless frame. 

O vanity supreme! since mortal fame 
Is naught but vanishing human breath; 
Who wins at last, exults, and then — 
Is swept away by conquering Death. 
Is spoken of by perishing creatures — men, 
And, for a time, his mighty name 
Appears in books that moths consume. 
And he — a bunch of dust within a tomb. 

Kings have died and left no trace behind — 
No proud memorial, trophy, tale; 
Their fame was lost upon the desert wind; 
Their dust was strewn on wintry gale. 

The dying serf, with final moan. 

Leaves a petty sum to buy a stone. 

The wind and rain will wear his name away. 

And busy worms achieve his swift decay. 

Though poor his life, and mean his lot, 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

He hates to feel he'll ever be forgot. 

Presumptuous man! obscure or great, 

Oblivion is thy final fate. 

So deemed the desert sage. He chose to die, 

And pierce the mysteries of the grave. 

Nor cared what solemn fate might lie 

Beyond Death's weird and silent wave. 

No idle fable checked his soaring thought; 

No scroll, with doubt or folly sealed, 

To prophecy a mystic lot 

Majestic Nature ne'er revealed. 

Content he left their varied creeds 

To those who bow to Superstition's wiles. 

Or cloak in cant their selfish deeds, 

Or secret woo soft Pleasure's smiles. 

His wasted life a curse had grown. 

Death was the surgery he chose 

To cure its ills. No coward moan 

Escaped his lips at thought of vile repose; 

No shudder marked the deed a gloomy crime 

To mar eternities of after time; 

Sternly and calmly he cast the sum 

Of existence — the dismal balance drew, 

Whereat Conscience' lips were dumb. 

Or owned the dreadful reckoning true. 

Annihilation was his trust. 

His life is gone, his form is dust. 

Where flows yon stream in pomp sublime, 

He moulders to the final time. 

Man's life is but a fleeting breath; 

Ambition's madness ends in death. 




SITTING BULL 

(Tatanka YoUuika) 

In armed resistance to arrest, Sitting Bull was killed at his camp on Grand River, December 15, 

1890. Many Indians and whites were killed. 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD 65 

BORDER OF THE UNDER WORLD 

[The grim cycle of Humanity — Industry, Prosperity, Over- 
population, War, Pestilence and Famine. Tliis is Nature's 
law. Man cannot change it. Human life is a brutal tragedy.] 

You seem so sad when half alone. 
When you do not deem me nigh, 
You bow your weary head and sigh. 
As though some shadow you deny 
Across your path were thrown. 
You liave some grief you will not own. 
Your red lips speak in joyous tone, 
Yet in your very smile I see 
Some evil things that should not be — 
Some subtle signs you seek to hide — 
The haughtiness of wounded pride, 
And bitterness witli pain allied. 
Sometimes the slightest things you say 
Seem darkened by some mystic doom. 
Sometimes your lightest words convey 
A nameless sense of weighty gloom 
That jesting will not drive away; 
And ever wlien your wit's in play 
You well nigh mar your morning bloom, 
Such keen, sarcastic things you say. 

You need not speak — you cannot screen 
What duller eyes than mine have seen. 
Apparent is to any gaze 
The deadly bane of your young days. 
In sportive mood Fate fashioned you. 
Fate made you fair as poets claim 
Soft Venus was when earth was new. 
Such beauty gives you dang'rous fame. 
Fate gave to you such lustrous eyes 
I first beheld you with surprise, 
And wondered if some wayward queen 
Arrayed in this your vesture mean. 
Did not wander in disguise. 

A thousand charms Fate gave to you 

As lavish as the summer's dew. 

With impulse warm and florid health. 

And pride that barely bends by stealth, 

And grandly beautified the whole 

With gifts of mind, heroic soul. 

Then far away the demon stole. 

But did not crown these gifts with wealth. 



What solace find you in such grace' 
In all these givings can you trace 



66 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

The semblance of a motive kind? 
" Cast away your teachings blind 
And question with undaunted mind. 
Fair as the stars of Fashion's sphere, 
Lo! you sit unhonored here. 
Who comes to pay you homage sweet 
With deference, impressive mien? 
A suppliant upon the scene; 
With tender vows in phrases meet? 
With knightly air, demeanor chaste? 
Tendering jewels at your feet; 
Viewing as naught his royal waste, 
So you bid him no more entreat. 
Smile assent to his am'rous claim. 
Receive his love and gems aflame — 
And haughtily wear his name? 

None come; but when you idly dream 
Beside your lattice — barely seem 
Observant of the throngs you view. 
Coarse lechers fix their gaze on you 
As they lounge past from fetid lairs, 
And ponder on what common snares 
May best achieve your fearful ill. 
They leer upon you, foul with lust. 
Until their red eyes feast their fill. 
And sate you with disgust. 
You cannot stir for secret foes; 
The dreary shadow of repose 
That Fate yet leaves you they would slay. 
They weave their toils around your way 
As hunters cast their nets for prey. 
Their smiles are false, their vows are lies; 
The honeyed things they sometimes say 
Are Hell's suggestions in disguise; 
There are no fiends more base than they — 
Your awful ruin is their prize. 
Such is the fruit your beauty bears; 
It girds you round about with snares. 

Not so does Fortune deal with all. 
Others to stately homes are born; 
On pleasant paths their footsteps fall, 
From rosy flush of childhood's morn 
Till autumn of their stormless days 
Fades out like sunset's dying blaze. 
This life to them is all in all. 
Affection girds them like a wall. 
And ready at their languid call 
Are all the joys that mortals win 
From love and luxury and sin. 
They have a surfeit of the bliss 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD 

For which you starve — what they reject, 
If yours, e'en in a den like this. 
Would make your glowing eyes reflect 
So deep a joy froip out your soul 
That I might read them like a scroll; 
Ay, tell you, ere you spake a word. 
That not in vain had been deferred 
Your thousand hopes — that not in vain 
Had Vice's baubles been forsworn, 
Or poverty and secret pain 
With iron fortitude been borne. 
But such, alas! is not to be. 
Vex not your soul with airy schemes — 
In vain you build your gorgeous dreams — 
You cannot alter Fate's decree. 

A man may rise, if born obscure — 

May summon courage to endure 

The world's rebuffs; wrench off the heel 

Of Poverty from prostrate neck — 

May rear his fortunes on the wreck 

Of other's hopes, and fiercely feel 

A thrill of vengeance in their woe. 

And in the stern strife a lofty glow 

Of exultation and of pride 

That sweeps Adversity aside. 

And conquers, step by step, a way 

Through adverse Fortune's thick array 

Of bitter woes, to all he craves 

That gold confers or Honor yields. 

His very anguish swiftly paves 

The rugged way to grandest fields. 

Lending a vigor to his blows 

That only desperation knows. 

All before him are his foes. 

With haughty hate he scorns repose, 

And strikes as though his fierce strokes fell, 

Not alone to reach his goal, 

But for life — his very soul — 

For earth itself, for if he fail. 

Not heartless crowds will hear his wail; 

The grave will close his gloomy tale. 

And desert winds will sing his knell — 

He will perish or prevail. 

Thus nerved, he wrests away his prize. 

But woman born to station low. 

Though fair as Juno, and as wise 

As Pallas chaste — how shall she rise? 

Too oft her dreary option lies 

Between a hovel and a hell. 

You were not born to be delight 



68 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Of some low churl of rude command 
And sudden rage, whose brutal hand 
Would be more often raised to smite 
Than reached in toil for thine and thee; 
Whose hated home would only be 
A prison vile, where toil and tears 
Would waste away the mournful years, 
And sickness, misery and pain. 
And pinching want alone would reign. 
You would not wish with pangs to bear 
Fair children from his loathed embrace, 
To see them pine and wither there, 
Or thrive in discord and disgrace. 
Foredoomed in after years to rot 
In brothel hives or prison cells. 
Abhor indeed your present lot, 
But even Hell hath deeper hells. 
Far better quaff at Lethe now. 
Die ere another sun arise, 
With beauty twined upon your brow, 
And Aidenn's light within your eyes, 
And warm within your purple veins 
The blood of youth, and on your cheek 
The florid freshness of the rose. 
Then wear accurst the galling chains 
That love and poverty impose. 

Two thousand years since Christ was born 
The money-kings his temples hold; 
His gentle rules they laugh to scorn, 
And buy his priests with tainted gold. 
• Men drudge and starve in dumb distress, 

And human sorrow is no less. 

Our planet swarms with weary slaves. 
Shall yet these hapless hordes increase? 
What millions pine for peaceful graves; 
In death alone find swift release 
From ceaseless toils and endless care; 
From rayless, hopeless, black despair. 
The lords of gold, in happy scenes. 
Behold it all with stony gaze. 
They know what this dilemma means. 
, It wakes in them no keen remorse. 

They see these hordes tread rueful ways — 
In toil exhaust their vital force 
To lengthen out each vampire's days. 
They view it all with fulsome praise, 
And welcome Mammon's gladsome cry: 
"Let slaves increase! O multiply 
That I may golden harvests reap; 
That human flesh may be more cheap. 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD .69 

Let holy maxims be instilled. 
How blest is love — arise and wed. 
O blessings crown each nuptial bed. 
Increase in kind; let earth be filled 
With mobs of paupers needing bread. 
Then cheaper will their toil be sold, 
And mightier the sway of Gold." 

'Tis passion vile that reigns — controls. 
What though we term it love or shame? 
How soothing to their dainty souls 
To dignify with happy name — 
Parade their shams in light of day, 
Despise poor weakness gone estray, 
Then pose in purity supreme — 
In snowy garb — and almost dream 
They are the spotless things they seem. 
And wedlock, too — ah! what of this? 
The captive knight is wan with care. 
His pay — a cold embrace and lifeless kiss. 
And charms that time will soon impair; 
And if ambition fires his brain, 
And fame hath been his lofty goal. 
Dream not these glorious dreams again. 
To fret in vain a fevered soul; 
But, like a giant in affray. 
Cast prostrate in his shame, 
Behold a future fade away — 
What hatli a slave to do with fame? 
Wild independence, fame, are gone. 
Call you such lot a happy one? 
'Tis bondage vile, yet Pate ordains 
That silence hide his inward pains. 
He hath no ground to build upon; 
With gloomy mind he grovels on. 
And Genius pines in hated chains. 
When peerless youth is free of woe. 
Each sunny hour enthroned in bliss, 
How can it be that fools will throw 
Its royal glories down for this? 

Yon skies allure with many a star. 
Because they shine so wondrous fair, 
Ask not why ills and sorrows are; 
Because yon wave, that seems a sea, 
Lies beauteous 'neath a summer moon. 
Ask not why griefs are thine so soon; 
Ask not why earth, alas! should be. 
Men grope in books to find a Hell. 
Methinks our world should answer well. 
Since first it wheeled with motion slow, 
Then sought its orbit o'er the skies. 



70 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

It's heard but sounds of pain arise — 
This breeding ground of mortal woe. 
And still they rise, and ever must. 
If some wild planet, off its course, 
Should shiver earth with fearful force; 
Ay, blow its fabric into dust. 
Some joys would end — as end they must; 
Vast misery would cease to be. 
Nor harm be done to you or me. 
To brood in thought gives only grief; 
These countless ills defy relief. 
There are wise men explain it all — 
Why most shall hunger, some shall feast; 
Why pain is good for man and beast, 
Why sorrows come, disasters fall. 
These wise men all fine linen wear. 
Their coaches roll at slightest call; 
They fatten on a prince's fare. 
The riddle dark to them is clear. 
They find this world a pleasant place. 
And little mourn that combats drear. 
Exhaustive toils, privations — place 
Deep seams across the poor man's face. 
Drudge! starve! seek not to understand. 
Lest .well-fed sages coldly frown. 
Each one — when dead — will wear a crown; 
Yea, strike a harp with joyous hand 
, In some delightful better land. 
If here he pines on slavish fare, 
He'll need no food or feasting there. 
O blind and silly sons of earth, 
Such prate should wake a dead man's mirth. 
And Woman's fate? In fear and pain 
To propagate; to weep in vain 
As olden sorrows come again. 

Death brings the fallen serf release 
Prom frantic efforts but to live. 
Men multiply as foods decrease. 
All crave what few may freely give. 
Excuse, explain, spin fairy tales. 
Denounce this awful creed of gloom; 
The cunning explanation fails — 
All merciless this race's doom. 

Pauline, these thoughts may not be well 

For such as you who honor laws 

That millions hail with fond applause; . 

For you, who yet may trembling pause 

Upon the threshold of a hell. 

When life presents no prize to win, 

'Tis desperation drives to sin. 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD 

And, glamoured o'er with Fancy's hues, 

What bright regalia sin assumes; 

How warm and wayward youth imbues 

The charnel scene with summer blooms, 

O'erlooks each snare, and but beholds 

Divinest joy where Pain unfolds 

Its hydra fangs or Woe consumes. 

There is a most delicious thrill 

In coy Temptation's soft approach; 

It does not wake the angry will 

With bold, free strides. 

But steals its course with matchless skill. 

As water glides. 

In dainty whispers does it broach 

The darkest deed, appearing still 

In winning guise. 

It fascinates like serpent's eyes. 

And lulls the senses like a dream. 

The blackest crimes bewitching seem 

Beneath the magic of its spell; 

It lures the wayward thoughts to dwell 

Where'er it choose, with subtlest art; 

Stealthily it moulds the heart 

To wild desires; it stills the pain 

That Conscience gives; a drowsy brain 

Applauds the deed and loosens rein — 

Or, with mad, with frantic haste, \ 

Awakes to horrors half embraced ; 1 

And seeks supremacy again. 

How vain are Wisdom's mandates cold, 
The voice of precept or of creed; 
How vain example may unfold 
Its logic stern, or Honor burn 
With lofty zeal to intercede; 
How passing vain in Beauty's need 
Are all prevailing powers of good. 
If but she list in tacit mood 
To fell Temptation's winsome call. 
And circumstance approve her fall. 
It little recks who woos her then — 
Full soon she wails o'er what hath been. 
******* 

From gardens cool a perfume floats 
On wand'ring winds of summer night. 
And airy Music's mellow notes 
Breathe intimations of delight. 
How Folly sports in guise of Love; 
The reckless crowds in joyance rove 
Where gaiety and restless dance 
Obscure each peril's rueful sign. 
Till swift in Ruin's fearful trance 



72 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

The victim falls, nor heeds the cost — 
Henceforth a fated thing of chance — 
To peace, to joy, forever lost. 
The fairest one is noblest game. 
The roue boasts his deeds of shame. 
Anon, with Hymen's honors blest, 
A social autocrat he blooms. 
He scourges Vice, and well assumes, 
The attributes he ne'er possessed. 
He makes the laws that rudely deal 
With those he threw beneath his heel. 

His former prey, for daily bread, 

Her health, her soul, her beauty sells. 

She roams the pave with weary tread, 

Or lingers in her noisy hells. 

Then hypocrites in menace frown — 

They rail of her, with fierce demand, 

Till Law grows wroth and smites her down. 

And wrings the wages from her hand. 

Then back it drives her to her den 

To earn the gold 'twill take again. 

O Sham! with banners white unfurled, 

Thy«kingdom is the peopled world. 

What veils thy myrmidons employ! 

Mock Purity, with mien of scorn. 

Hastes by the Magdalen forlorn. 

Then revels in hymeneal joy — 

A future Magdalen is born. 

Her pathway teems with gilded snares. 

In sadness Byron's muse declares: 

"If man to man is oft unjust, 
To Woman he is ever so." 
Her gentle nature bids her trust, 
And passion brings her overthrow. 

"Love is lust, friendship all deceit. 
Smiles hypocrisy and life a cheat." 
If too severe, such thoughts are meet 
To guide aright thy wand'ring feet. 
Guard well thy steps and watch alway — 
Pure love, too oft, is Passion's prey. 

To thine own self, Pauline, be true. 
Ah! deem not vice,- so fair to view, 
The maze of joy it seems to you. 
Would you know Delilah's round? 
In fear she roves Destruction's ground. 
Pale Horror beards her face to face; 
Before her yawns a gulf of wrath; 
Behind? a desolated path 
Her feet can never more retrace. 
Disastrous venom fills her veins, 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD 

To mock the mii'th she madly feigns. 

All scenes are by her step defiled. 

Not one pure joy remains her own. 

She moves through all the world alone. 

Abhorred, avoided, and reviled. 

Her game is death — she slays for bread. 

The beauty Fate first formed her in 

Is turned to poison, treachery and sin. 

She goes her way with stealthy tread, 

To tempt the young, the strong, the bold. 

As well seek they a cobra's fold. 

She lures them on; Death lingers nigh; 

She sends them forth — anon to die. 

This is her trade — it is to kill; 

She cannot change it if she will. 

She was not spared; why should she spare? 

Who taught to her Pollution's snare? 

Let none declare 

The canting tale of Pity's lie. 

Let censure sleep. 

Does Nature stay the wrathful gales 

Because a shattered vessel sails 

Upon the deep? 

Or swift withhold the wasteful rain 

At day's high noon, 

Because the fields with level grain 

Are thickly strewn? 

Or turn away the lava tide 

That hisses down the mountain side, 

Because a city blocks its course? 

When far unrolls the whirlwind's force, 

What power heeds if ills betide? 

When might supreme deigns not to spare, 

Why should a ruined wretch forbear? 

You start — I thought you scarce could know 

The full expanse of human woe. 

These things to you are deeply strange, 

Their drift you do not comprehend; 

I see your cheek's rich color change. 

And fast its pink and crimson blend 

With ashy white; it seems to burn. 

E'en when most pale, with a vague heat. 

As though your pulse with fever beat. 

Much yet, fair girl, have you to learn. 

Of you I dreamed — half drunk you reeled 
By night along a crowded pave; 
The glare of myriad lights revealed 
Your wasted lineaments, and gave 
Their ghastly outlines such a mien 
Of utter woe, I thought the grave 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Might well have snatched you from the scene 

As one rebelling from Death's sleep. 

Your swollen eyes refused to weep, 

And yet your bitter soul o'erflowed 

With solemn griefs; doomed to reap 

The baleful harvest you had sowed, 

You staggered on. Men passed you by 

With cruel jest, with laughter rude; 

The pure shunned you; every eye. 

With touch of pity unsubdued. 

Stared heartless insolence and scorn. 

Crushed, abashed, maddened, spurned, forlorn; 

The loathsome wreck of former days, 

You stole from out the street's red blaze. 

And crouched where deepest night had fled. 

Shamed e'en when shame itself was dead. 

Ah, sweet Pauline, you cannot guess 
The horrors of a woman's fall. 
There is no language can express 
The anguish and wild wretchedness 
That ceaselessly her soul appall. 
Her revel bowl is brimmed with gall; 
It cannot quench her deep despair. 
The roses twined amid her hair 
The odors of the grave exhale; 
The hollow mirth she seems to share 
But mocks her spirit's inward wail, 
And spectres stalk amidst the air 
While loud- her merriments prevail. 

What wild, lone path to you remains, 
Where neither Penury enchains 
With fetters cold, nor Shame's hot breath 
Scathes the broad road that winds to death? 
Rise on your nature, fierce to rend. 
Bid every tender instinct bend 
To god-like Reason's iron sway; 
Bid every warm impulse be bred 
To cool distrust or scorn instead. 
Of Friendship's tawdry smiles beware. 
Crush Love and Pity ere they bear 
Their sweet and unavailing fruit. 
For foes and treachery prepare. 
Know Man, full oft, a lustful brute 
Whose fading spark of fire divine 
Through bestial passion scarce can shine; 
And earth a ruthless battle ground 
Where Might and Wrong so oft are found 
Arrayed against the frail and weak; 
Henceforward let your fair lips speak 
But cold, calm words, nor deign to seek 



BORDER OF THE UNDERWORLD 75 

A sympathy your sex e'er craves, 

Which won, transforms them soon to slaves; 

Dream not of peace, hope not to gain 

A single joy from all your pain; 

Undaunted by the baser crowd, 

Untainted by Corruption's gofd; 

Unloving and unloved, stern, proud, 

Selfish, untempted and unsold. 

Wear the melancholy years away. 

And at the close of Life's brief day 

Leave not upon this crowded sphere 

One hapless child to war with Fate; 

To tread alone some pathway drear. 

To cringe to those of high estate — 

Be trampled on by cruel feet. 

Atoning for the vain delight 

That you have won in moments bright 

From Love's unhappy, idle cheat. 

Adieu, Pauline, the purple sea 
Will bear no lover back to thee. 



76 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE MARCH OF ORELLANA 

[Roaming the tropical wilds of Brazil in quest of the city 
of the Amazon Queen, "with houses and temples roofed with 
gold," Orellana and his knights discovered the Amazon River. 
Most of the expedition perished.] 

"Wandering stars, in blackness of darkness forever. — Jiide. 

I 
Spain sends a host of heroes forth — 
A galaxy of peerless brave, 
A nation's pride — of warlike worth — 
Who fear no waste of Ocean's wave. 
A martial constellation they. 
To whom the world becomes a prey — 
Their deeds are in all regions told — 
Cortez, Pizarro, Alvarado bold, 
Cordova, and — immortal name — 
Arcturus of the starry fold — 
Columbus of eternal fame. 

With shining shield and glittering lance 
Mount, cavaliers! the war steeds prance, 
The trumpets peal; once more advance. 

When Europe's knights in splendor rode 

To war with Paynim chivalry. 

Disdaining pleasures, choice abode — 

All dainty fare on men bestowed; 

The fruits of vine and vernal tree; 

For them in vain the nectar flowed. 

And luscious wines of Araby. 

They crossed the coasts of distant sea. 

Passed mountains high and burning lands, 

To battle o'er the Syrian sands. 

Fair girls they saw but heeded not; 

Temptations lined their joyless way; 

They glanced ahead and lingered not. 

Straight on they rode in solemn thought. 

A purpose moved them day by day; 

It bore them on to mighty fray. 

Yet each one left in castle hall 

A lady fair to pray for all. 

Afar the knight assailed his foes. 

At home the lady's orisons arose. 

And if he fell Love found her true; 

To convent grey she soon withdrew, 

And wistful men saw her no more; 

No former scene her presence knew, 

Her sorrow lived in tournay lore. 

Which most allures — love, wealth or fame? 



MARCH OF ORELLANA 

Sometimes I think that love is best, 

Since life's achievements all are tame 

When that we covet is possessed. 

If Woman's rosy lips be pressed, 

And love be sworn upon a shrine. 

Men wander off in idle quest 

Of other goddesses divine — 

As do these moody knights of mine. 

Gold has a spell to give relief 

To ev'ry form of human grief. 

A soldier's wreath of glory won 

May disappoint a martial heart 

That held its way till all was done. 

The winner plays his haughty part, ' 

Disdains the things that make life sweet, 

Then finds his envied prize a cheat. 

But who shall honor men who make 

The winning of a siren smile. 

Of all their lives the mighty stake? 

If love delight us for a while, 

Why let us love till sated quite. 

Then bare our blades for dauntless fight, 

To win a spoil 'neath Fortune's star. 

Where Glory — Empire— shine afar. 

II 
Through solemn woods and hot savanna 
Far winds the trail of Orellana. 
The way so long, so far the goal. 
It tries Adventure's utmost soul. 
Riches, power, pleasures, fame 
Are staked upon this fearful game. 
The Fountain of Eternal Youth 
They sought in vain in Land of Flowers, 
May yet await, in very truth, 
In this enchanted zone of ours. 
Though fiickle, vain and oft untrue. 
All noble knights pay homage due 
To Woman in her lofty place. 
They make of love a life-long chase. 
Old men muse not of Beauty's glow, 
Of lovely Woman's tempting wile; 
Forgot the bliss of long ago — 
They chuckle o'er the golden pile! 
'Tis gold they love; they fall to clay, 
And all their gold is cast away. 
With wealth immense and youth eternal, 
O life would be a joy supernal! 
The Fount of Youth, in ceaseless play, 
May gleam in forests on our way. 
This wildest march, O knights, pursue; 
High faith and valor bear us through. 



78 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

With wealth and empire proudly won, 
Orellana's march is .done. 
Some day we'll peal a glad hosanna 
At end of trail of Orellana. 

Ill 
Brazilian suns pierce not the gloom 
That makes the dark woods like a tomb. 
In dismal shades dull saurians creep, 
Or hid in sedges, feign to sleep. 
To tempt their human prey to doom. 
Far off is roar of deluge deep. 
Where huge, long serpents coil and cougar leaps, 
The rich-plumed bird its vigil keeps; 
Where ornate floral splendors bloom 
The tapir crouches low and sleeps. 
The jungles spread in utter gloom; 
The vasty woods seem like a tomb. 
All Christian scenes, alas! are gone^ — 
Conquestadors, we still march on, 
For nightly dreams give purpose bold — 
We revel in fierce hopes of gold, 
Since wealth is hid in solitudes 
Of some remote, inviolate scene 
Where reigns the Amazonian queen. 
Her soldiers fierce are dazzling broods 
And restless bands of warlike girls; 
In onset wild, intrepid, bold; 
Their golden targes rimmed with pearls. 
Their battle spears of native gold; 
An Inca's wealth's in their stronghold, 
With fanes and temples roofed with gold. 
There's naught mad avarice to foil. 
Thrice welcome danger, trial, toil. 
To wrest away this mighty spoil. 
With chivalry, on bended knees. 
We'll woo these dames at lawless ease. 
What think you, knights? Which mode will please? 
High feats of arms or hymns of love? 
Sweet passion's vow or martial skill? 
The soldier's wrath or lover's kiss? 
What shame these daughters fair to kill! 
O starry spheres of skies above. 
What men have known a strife like this? 
It is Aladdin's reckless raid — 
The strangest of all marches made. 
Since life is brief, its pleasures tame, 
All men aspire to leave behind 
A memory to mortal kind. 
How blest in age is noble name. 
And sweet in youth the voice of Fame. 
Proud Manhood's prime disdaias to wear 



MARCH OF ORELLANA 79 

Some paltry laurel — bays shine fair 
Because one bore long years of shame, 
Nor ever cooled Ambition's flame, 
Or owned a craven's lovi^ despair. 
Defiance breathe at Fortune's frovi^n — 
We'll still war on for Glory's crown. 
We cannot leave the course we tread — 
They who returned, alas! are dead. 
Fear not each loathsome leafy scene, 
Nor savage race that roves by day. 
Nor brutes that prowl at eve for prey, 
Nor pythons huge that hiss unseen. 
Then steal upon our dang'rous way. 
All ills Espania's knights endure 
When beauty, wealth and fame allure. 
Brave, then, whate'er may intervene, 
To find this Amazonian queen. 

IV 
Heat! Heat! Terrific heat 
Of burning equatorial South! 
Fierce and fast the Sun's rays beat; 
Like blast from fiery furnace mouth 
Is noonday breeze. Not anywhere 
Is haven from this furnace air. 
Discomforts thrive, but worst 
Of daily ills is feverish thirst. 
This burnt-up region is accurst. 
Its gaudy floral splendors raise 
Their sickly crests to bloom and burst. 
Coats of mail like burnished silver shine; 
They glitter in a long resplendent line. 
Tremendous vines and boughs disport on high; 
And livid hues dismay the weary eye. 
The pools and streams along our ways 
Are fetid from the Sun's fierce blaze. 
And scattered o'er with greenish slime 
On which abhorrent vegetations fall. 
Beneath, enormous reptiles crawl, 
And hideous things of torrid clime. 
These rueful ills no hearts appall. 
Spain's cavaliers are knights indeed, 
They fear no foes that haunt their course; 
They war for Gold and Glory's meed. 
And move to fray with restless force. 
Far better, knights, to fight and fail — 
Ay, perish on the path we tread. 
Than turn us back with lowered head. 
With shattered dreams and visions fied. 
In slothful ease henceforth to wail. 
With fearless hearts face any scene 
To find this Amazonian Queen. 



80 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Thirst that burns and hunger, too — • 
We careless brave such ordeals through. 
In crucial test each knight is true. 
With vigils, weariness, and sleepless hours 
We meet mad Nature's frantic powers. 
Though hurricanes o'ersweep our way 
To rend the world in savage play, 
We sternly keep our goal in view. 
Whate'er betides, this be the tale: 
We greatly win or greatly fail. 

V 
Delicious halt last eve was made 
'Mong ruined walls of some great town 
Where human pomp was once displayed — 
Some royal place of old renown, 
Built long ago by race forgot, 
Where men with wondrous skill had wrought. 
Deep in the heart of giant woods 
The ruins lay, with forests overgrown — 
In solitude of solitudes — 
Stones of colossal size, blocks 
Of smoothly chiseled adamantine rocks 
Lay in confusion there — 
Marble, granite, chalcedonies fair — 
And monstrous trees up rose in air. 
First forcing way through floors of stone 
Of massive and tremendous weight; 
Age-old acqueducts in shattered state. 
Gave precious water, trickling through, 
Forming in a deep, gigantic pool 
Of fluid — limpid, pure and cool. 
In peace we camped where gardens wide 
Nigh o'ercome by wilderness of weeds, 
Bore luscious fruits beyond our needs. 
Rank, poisonous vegetation fought 
Against the bounties of that lonely spot. 
This capital of other days. 
Once home of Art and seat of power. 
Metropolis that baffled praise. 
Was now, all round, Destruction's dower. 
Stupendous ruins caused amaze — 
Fallen rampart, castle, temple, tower. 

Where stately palm, bamboo and rubber tree 
Round glassy pools gave welcome shade. 
Were water-lilies blooming undismayed; 
They charmed the eye that lingered lovingly. 
Where gigantic trees hang thick with vines 
Of vasty size, what wealth of color shines! 
We halted there, where shade and rest, 
And countless fruits, and shelter blessed. 
Thrice well we slept, like chevaliers 
Unmoved by mortal hopes and fears. 



MARCH OF ORELLANA 

Because they found in rubbish heap 
Some dingy tools of beaten gold, 
Three knights resolved a vow to keep 
In that remote and wild stronghold — 
With maddened zeal, half crazed for gold, 
(Which they believed might linger yet 
In hidden vaults and coffers deep) 
This ancient spoil they swore to get. 
With vows and prayers and oaths intense, 
If ne'er again they wandered thence. 
To every foe and peril blind. 
These crazy knights remained behind. 
Vain, foolish men! 'tis braver, knights, 
To struggle on through woodlands far; 
Through swamp, morass, o'er flooded bar, 
To distant scenes of gay delights 
Where Amazonia's daughters are; 
Wine and gold and princely fare 
Await the gallant knights who dare. 
We'll hasten on, from sun to sun, 
Till Orellana's march is done. 

VI ^ 

To every peril, hazard, danger blind, ^ 
This deperado-haunt we leave behind. 
My lords and gentlemen of Spain, 
Our venture wild, our pilgrimage, is on again. 
Though human will and human zeal 
May beat a way through walls of steel, 
To saints and gods we yet appeal. 
Our guiding stars, our deities. 
Our heavenly patron saints are these: 
Plutus, god of treasure, god of gold. 
He makes us like young lions bold, 
He tempts and lures us to his fold. 
Heroic Pride — we answer its high call; 
And goddess Fortune; gentle, kind and sweet, 
Who reigns triumphant over all — 
Will bid her happy favors fall 
In golden treasures at our feet; 
Patience, too, and Courage tried — 
The noble offspring of imperious Pride; 
And Fortitude — a god of sullen face. 
Of iron will; grim, merciless, severe. 
He sternly bids us make the race 
Though hapless, hard and dreadful scenes appear. 
This god is great, and paves the way 
To glorious spoils on battle day. 
Nor shall we deem of trivial weight 
A force that reigns in regal state. 
And reigns supreme — men term it Fate. 
Its accident of will is law. 



82 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

While kingdoms crumble at its beck, 

And fill a startled world with awe, 

It flings aside the mighty wreck, 

Mayhap with cunning hand to turn 

The humble chances of some laison low; 

To teach some trustful heart to burn. 

Or guide fond Faith down steeps of woe; 

Or yet to balk some well laid scheme 

With deep damnation fraught; 

To blast some sweet and lotus dream. 

Or mar some trebly subtle plot. 

When lives are desperate and fortunes great — 

All hail the potent hand of Fate! 

True knight of Aragon, of proud Castile, 

Ne'er seeks return from Danger's track. 

At Honor's call his faith he'll seal 

With dying breath — ne'er turns he back. 

VII 
Strange stars deceive at gorgeous eve 
Of torrid South — orbs we know not of. 
In glittering firmaments aflame above; 
So l»illiant, men remote would not believe, 
But^n this beauty — wonderful, intense — 
Is something heavy with offense — 
A weird, uncanny splendor we do fear; 
A supernatural something awes us here; 
The Sun glares angrily, with evil sign. 
Only the dazzling Moon comes forth benign. 
And smiles on us with radiance divine. 
Though Hell or Heaven bar this course, 
We still will move with headlong force. 
Death? We do not care. It were death. 
And worse than death, to sail to Spain, 
Unheralded by Glory's breath. 
To meet a sovereign's cold disdain; 
Uncrowned, unknown, in nameless penury to dwell. 
With naught in life to lose or gain. 
That, my lords, were death — and also Hell. 
If death awaits, so let it be. 
Though all around with ill is rife — 
Sleepless, restless, fierce with stormy life, 
We push through dangerous mystery 
In quest of some momentous strife. 
Then hasten, knights — fast come the time 
To sweep the field with faith sublime. 

VIII 
With angel smile, through regions far, 
Hope leads us on to reckless war. 
And Patience, Hardihood and Pride 
All bear us on through deserts wide. 



MARCH OF ORELLANA 

Lured on by Fortune's glowing star 
Spain's chivalry delight in war. 
This march is Heaven's own command. 
Ambition's mad pulsations, 
And Europe's martial nations 
Will win this heathen land. 
With swords of steel and coats of mail 
We'll soon o'er heathen hordes prevail, 
And swift in city, coast and town 
Will emblems of their gods go down. 
This war's excitements and alarms 
Impart to life intenser charms. 
Our passionate love of arms. 
And martial pride to wield them well. 
Let minstrel songs in future tell. 
And of our dead? — they proudly fell. 
Each did his part at Honor's call. 
Great martial strife survives in song. 
The annals high that Time has saved 
Pay royal honors to the strong. 
They won all things their passions craved. 
The race that feared when banners waved, 
Was plundered, conquered and enslaved. 
Borne on by fierce, impetuous Will, 
We face a savage contest still. 
Before the Will, Fate's barriers fall- 
Invincible Will! that conquers all. 
When dangers thicken in our van. 
And failure blights each noble plan, 
Imperious Will impels us on. 

Castilian lords and Spanish knights, 
I bid your souls be unsubdued; 
Away the joys of sybarites. 
All pleasant scenes of calm delights — 
Exult you in proud hardihood. 
Confront the terrors of the wood. 
The rage of Nature, heat of sun. 
The secret snares of solitude; 
With knightly mien and courtly grace, 
Front ruin, fearless, face to face. 
When gold and glory may be won. 
We march again, fierce toils begin; 
Our choice is made — to die or win. 

The dreams of life, how swift they fade 

Beneath the breath of Time; 

How soon in secret graves are laid 

Each impulse high and hope sublime. 

But while the shafts of Chance or Fate 

Lay each golden fabric low. 

Not long we mourn its fallen state. 



84 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Or cringe beneath the brutal blow. 

With joy we learn the lesson great 

That in this wild, enchanted clime, 

True knights defy the hand of Fate, 

And foil the rage of hateful Time. 

Ye sons of sires who drove the Moor 

To Afric's lair, shall not our fame endure? 

Awake! Press on! and mighty spoil secure. 

IX 

Life has no value, chevaliers. 

This melancholy truth is told 

By pen of genius, tongue of seers, 

By voice of wisdom ages old. 

Life's vaunted glory does not last. 

Well may we place it on a cast; 

A trifle flung with spirit bold, 

In wager for enormous gold. 

Israel's king, in pomps magniflcent. 

Of all his dazzling years made deep repent; 

His sensuous joys that swiftly went. 

His mighty works that charmed a while. 

Then woke his cold, derisive smile, 

Foredoomed to end in nothingness. 

Death had no terrors or distress. 

He mourned in sorrow and in pain 
• That all that mortals do is vain. 

To prince or peasant, lord or slave. 

Comes the solemn stillness of the grave. 

Though great to us the planets seem. 

Firm earth will vanish like a dream. 

Life has no value to the brave. 

A Roman sage in scorn averred 

That for the starving human herd 

Quick death were better far than life. 

From birth to death 'tis only strife. 

Some evil spirit made this earth 

For useless miseries and pain. 
J Since human life's of little worth. 

We'll stake it for tremendous gain. 

Revel, feast, enjoy, and fearless die.. 
! This is age-old philosophy. 

Weep not o'er fallen fortunes past. 

We'll gain our splendid goal at last. 

Romantic stories will be told 

Of how we won our princely aim; 

How health and lives were freely sold 

For wealth and power, glory, fame. 

Haste on through bright or dismal scene 

To find this Amazonian queen. 

Great the temptings of this escapade; 

To laugh, to die, is but the soldier's trade. 



MARCH OF ORELLANA 85 

Since life hath won such trifling fame, 

We'll stake it on this reckless game. 

Our swords and lives we place in pawn 

Till Orellana's march is done. 

A woodland grave or mighty gain — 

This is our choice, O knights of Spain. 

We'll gather gold as Hebrews gathered manna; 

The crucial test — to march with Orellana. 

Then onward move with valiant soul. 
Let every heart with fury burn. 
With prowess and with valor stern, 
To write high names on Honor's roll 
And win great Orellana's goal. 
One day, O knights — a single hour 
May place vast wealth within our power. 
Knights-errant bold! let none recoil; 
Wealth of Croesus brings Nirvana. 
In temples grand of this wild land. 
Where reigns in state a proud Sultana, 
We'll seize our spoil and cease our toil 
On trail of Orelland. 



86 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

CITY OF KAI.LAHOOTAH 



[Office of the Kallahootah Swindling & Dining Company, 
Colonel Booster in the highway-robbery chair, and present, 
Count Lucius Von Inkslinger, a noble but impecunious poet.] 

Colonel Booster: 

They tell me thou art a genius, 
Lost in dreams of vivid imagery; 
Melancholy oft, solitary, taciturn; 
Dwelling apart from men 
Till drawn to sordid earth 
By occasional pangs of hunger. 
Distaste of toil hath made thee poor. 
Thou lackest gold. 

Count Lucius: 

True, illustrious pooler. 

Colonel: 

Look you. I own a burning desert 
Which men do name the 'Kallahootah. 
Remote it is, in middle Aridzone. 
Beasts of prey observe it warily, 
Construe it far aloof. 
Then fly its rueful confines. 
Ravens, buzzards, noxious birds of air. 
Scream wildly when they near it. 
These partial ills, to you, I do confess. 
There rattlesnakes attain enormous size, 
And range the land in regiments 
t To feed on hapless human wand'rers. 

Venomous tarantulas teem, reptiles crawl, 

Scorpions hide, Gila monsters drowse; 

The* agile centipede lies in wait. 

With poisonous fangs, in every smoky crevice. 

Count: 

Alas! thou art poor as myself. 

Colonel: 

Not so. This barren waste is treeless. 

Cacti wilt or parch on burning sands. 

Contagions propagate, malarias float, 

Bubonics thrive, plagues engender; 

E'en leprosy may there evolve. 

For thirty days each year a river flows, 

Fetid, through this Death's abode, 

Then the sun licks up the muddy flood; 

Its very bed resolves to dust. 

And is blown far heavenward. 

On shrivelled pampas of wild-sage 

A sickly pretense of thin verdure pines. ■ 



CITY OF KALLAHOOTAH 87 

Human habitations once arose 

On this unpleasant scene. 

'Twas on a former dismal time, 

But the occupants are gone. 

Of sundry things they died. 

Their huts are lairs of howling wolves, 

And snakes do hiss and fight around. 

Count : 

horrible! 

Colonel: 

Climatic freaks assail this weary zone. 

In wintry months disastrous blizzards come 

From tall glaciers, and distant mountain peaks, 

Freezing air to temperature intense. 

In other months the brains of army mules 

Are fried and fricasseed within their massive skulls. 

Count (in alarm) : 

Thou wouldst not have me dwell 
At deadly Kallahootah? 

Colonel: 

No. A graveyard there was once promoted. 
Since men could only die upon that spot, 
'Twas thought a cemetery would prove 
A paying venture, but skeletons of men 
Which living skeletons did there entomb. 
Were resurrected by starved beasts of prey. 
And famished vultures hovered round, 
And fought to join the horrid banquet. 
The scattered bones of those unhappy men 
Do now appall the frighted traveler. 

Count: 

Speak! What wouldst thou? 

Colonel: 

1 would have thee, troubadour, to paint for me 
Delightful scenes, on that abhorrent waste. 
That simple-minded folk in States remote 
May buy those barren lands, and make me rich. 

I tender thee a kindly recompense. 

Delineate a stream effluent. 

With tides fresh from fountains of the hills, 

Whereon a stately steamer rides; 

Fields of grain and groves of palm, vineyards wide. 

And gardens filled with luscious fruits. 

Have, too, a pleasant city on that shore. 

With avenues abloom with flow'ry trees. 

And plazas bright with limpid pools, 

And wavy clumps of rich exotic plants, 

And fairest of all foreign flowers. 

And here and there, with walls of white. 



; SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Have marble mansions fit for Moorish kings. 
Sling thyself, poet — I'll give thee good reward. 

Count: 

Thy dupes will soon return, 
To cry aloud thy villainy. 

Colonel: 

Ha! fear thou not. Who sits him down 
On Kallahootah tract, will see 
The breathing world no more. 
Wolves will howl his requiem. 

Count: 

A conscience. Sir, I have — a soul! 

Colonel: 

A corporation of our noble State, 
The Swindling & Dining Company 
Has no soul. I, myself, 
Am several corporations, and hence 
Have had no soul for many years. 
What say you to my offer? 

Count: 

Hunger, alas, compels acceptance. 

Colonel: 

And thou art wise. I've read me of a knave 
Poor as thyself, ignoble quite. 
Who sought to win a wealthy dame. 
Without a home or worthy dwelling place, 
He thus to her did improvise 
A castle in the air, for her delusion. 
"A deep vale, shut in by Alpine hills 
From a rude world; near, a lake 
Marged by fruits of gold and whisp'ring myrtles; 
A palace fair, lifting to eternal summer 
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower 
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds. 
At noon we'll sit in silent rest, 
And wonder earth is e'er unhappy 
Since Heaven leaves us youth and love. 
When night is come 'mid breathless heavens, 
We'll guess what star shall be our home 
When love has grown immortal. 
Every air is faint with rich perfume — 
With breath of orange groves, and music from 
Sweet lutes, and murmurs of low fountains 
That rise 'neath canopies of roses." * 
This be thy model, poet. If thou wouldst fare 
As well as he, paint thou a paradise 
At deadly Kallahootah. 

(Exit Poet, dejected.) 



Bulwer. 



CITYOFKALLAHOOTAH 19 



(Office of the Swindling & Dining Company.) 

Colonel: 

Hast thou seen Count Lucius Von Inkslinger this 
morning? 

Secretary : 

I have but left him, Sir. 

Colo7iel: 

And where tarries he with the maps, 
Advertisements, engravings and prints 
Of the Swindling & Dining Company? 

Secretar]/: 

He is at the Morgue, Sir. The papers I have safely 



Colonel: 

And what doeth he at the Morgue? 

Secretary: 

He lieth full length on a slab of ice. 

Completing the work assigned him. 

He drew his paltry pay therefor; 

Then met a garrulous knave 

From Arizona wilds, in treatment here for viper bite. 

To the Count this person gave additional data 

Of the region written of. 

Straightway Count Lucius hanged himself 

In yonder alley. Sir. 

Colonel: 

O that I had sold him a lot 
In the City of Kallahootah. 
Off! to print his rubbish. 




FIFTY YEARS AGO 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



CAMP McCLELLAN 

[Iowa's principal instruction camp in the Civil War. Writ- 
ten in 1884.] 

Twenty-two years ago we marched these hills 

With martial aspirations duly fired, 

Nor thought of graves and wounds and other ills — 

Free gifts of Mars not much to be desired. 

How swift the busy years have rolled around. 

Teynpus fugit! Yes, it fugits mighty fast. 

'Twas yesterday we trod this hallowed ground, 

And then were boys, awoke by Glory's blast. 

To-day we are grave men, from sorrow sore— 

War-wearied knights in Life's unending fray — 

We who survive, for most sleep far away. 

Slain for the flag our gallant fathers bore. 

As eagles fall, when Heaven's lightning rends, 

They gave their youth and lives for noble ends — 

Cold, selfish men in secret vote them fools; 

Perhaps they were, for by commercial rules 

They gave too much for what they got — a grave. 

They only knew there was a land to save, 

That they were young and fit for War's alarms; 

That Freedom called her champions to arms. 

The humblest one of that devoted band 

Was worth, to his endangered native land, 

To human progress and the world's affairs, 

More than a hundred greedy millionaires. 

So here we marched, but ah! how changed the scene. 
Now peaceful kine browse on the verdure green; 
Our barracks rude have all been torn away, 
The ax has felled our broadly waving oaks; 
To Ceres fair grim Mars has yielded sway; 
Where bugles rang the solemn bullfrog croaks. 
The crickets chirp, and low is heard the hum 
Of honey bees where beat the rattling drum. 
And lovers whisper where the loud command 
Pealed on the air from chiefs of lofty grade; 
Where lines of battle formed now fences stand. 
And idle sheep loll on the grand parade. 

What countless memories are here revived 

Of sports and pageants, drill and frolics wild. 

When staid commanders had us safely hived 

At eve, how oft at discipline we smiled. 

And sudden charged the hated sentry line. 

And sought the neighb'ring town's attractive bound. 

To woo sweethearts, for where brass buttons shine 

There Cupid, Bacchus and gay nymphs are found. 

Alas, we came to grief from apple pies — 

Our chosen band. We smashed a bake-shop in 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

To learn how moving armies get supplies, 
And rich in sauce and pies and plates of tin, 
And other spoils — all smeared with plunder sweet, 
In goodly order we strolled up the street. 
An armed patrol in stealthy ambush lay, 
To neatly capture us young beasts of prey. 

Like Lara, chieftain of Byronic fame, 

Our Colonel was an officer austere. 

From West Point's famed academy he came. 

Few were his words, his haughty mien severe. 

His very glance inspired a kind of fear. 

Yet none possessed a more consummate skill 

In teaching men how properly to kill, 

In Danger's hour how gallantly to lead. 

Or, by example, how to fight and bleed. 

These warlike virtues were anon revealed. 

He proved a hero in the tented field. 

But at the first we did not love him over well. 

He said too much although his words were few; 

The drill ground air hiad a sulphuric smell, 

And new recruits pronounced his ways congealed — 

Quite frigid, as it were — these warmer grew 

When, ere we left for southern hill and vale, 

Some wretch cut off his blooded horse's tail. 

He led us off, at length, a thousand strong, 

And in old Shiloh's green, immortal wood. 

With brag and jest and patriotic song. 

And warlike relish for a feast of blood. 

We marched to stem Defeat's o'erwhelming flood. 

"Just wait till we get there," we grandly cried 
To routed regiments and flying squads; 

"We'll smash those butternuts, cool down their pride; 
Yes, do it in two hours, by the gods! 
And have their flags, and hang Jeff Davis high. 
You are going to see this battle won." 
Our Colonel sneered — we did not then know why. 
But ascertained before the set of sun. 
Ah, well! we then were what the books call "raw." 
luka, Corinth, Vicksburg, Kenesaw, 
Atlanta, March to the Sea — these the names 
That grew upon our flag, bright as the flames 
Of rising sun, and blazoned all in gold. 
Yet every letter on that standard's fold 
Cost blood and lives and agonies untold. 
God rest the boys who for its honor sold 
All that a human life can have or hold. 

I linger here but only to be sad. 

War yet awaits, not of the olden kind. 

I thought these early scenes would make me glad. 



IDYLSOFBOHEMIA 95 

They but distress an over-weighted mind. 

Ah! the happiest days I ever knew 

Were when I wore at war the Nation's blue. 



SOLOMON'S LAMENT 

Shulamite, return, return — 

My heart is lone, no joys can cheer; 
The very stars have ceased to burn 
With wonted rays, and chill and drear 
The breezes come from mountains bare 
To moan to me in low despair. 
They miss thee as the stars have done, 
Thy roses swoon beneath the sun; 
All nature sighs, all fair things yearn 
For thee — O Shulamite return. 

Return, return, O Shulamite — 

1 cannot stay my grief with wine; 

I cannot through the day or night 

These wasting thoughts of thee resign; 

No more my wonted joys delight. 

No more I bow at Pleasure's shrine. 

Nor bask in halls of glory bright — 

How long, O sweet, must I repine? 

A kindred one I cannot meet 

'Mong all Judea's joyous throng; 

Ah! whither stray thy wayward feet. 

Thou princess of my mournful song? 

O peerless idol of my mind. 

Thou sweeter than the breath of dawn; 

fairest of all womankind — 

Queen of my heart, where hast thou gone? 

Hath love yet lore thou hast not taught 

Or lore I have not deigned to learn? 

Then be all lore save thine forgot 

O Shulamite return, return. 



OFF TO THE WARS 

[1862] 

Adieu, sweet maids of honor frail. 
Of charms too fair to last; 

Adieu each dear and sunny vale 
Where happiest hours have passed; 

Where sweeps Destruction's lurid gale 
My future lot is cast. 



96 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

HOLOFERNES AT ZIDOX 

Lo! where his minions had marched in their pride, 
The cities were gone, and all men had died. 
Where once rich valleys blushed golden with grain. 
Hot ashes were blown o'er forms of the slain. 
Where fruits grew luscious in lowland or glen. 
The brooks were all choked with corses of men. 
In vengeance he rode to the bright sea coast — 
Zidonia trembled at tread of his host. 
The virgins came forth in bravest attire. 
With dancing and songs, with timbrel and lyre. 
With garlands and roses they showered his path; 
Their beauty assuaged his lowering wrath. 
He marked their pallor, the fear in their song. 
And sorrowed for war and the rage of the strong. 
"Let not these daughters be tarnished," he said, 
"Nor harm ye the land in which they were bred." 



MUSINGS OF A SEER OF ATLANTIS 

[See Prose Addenda.] 

The Moon is a pale, dead world; 

A floating sepulchre in eternal space. 

O, Stars, tell me of its past. 

What races there did dwell, 

Waging gigantic wars. 

Crowning kings, and rearing aloft 

Colossean fanes? — miracles of art. 

Glorious empires there held reign. 

Waned old, and passed. 

Thrones, peoples, pomps, are gone. 

Flesh, bones, temples, tombs. 

Are idle dust. 

Blown hither and yon on useless gales. 

Shall our world perish like yonder orb, 

And roll through space all tenantless 

Till Time shall be no more? 

And to what purport when we are gone? 

Shall human forms all vanish quite, 

Like races now extinct. 

And still the world roll on? 

Shall great Atlantis fall? 
Its wealth, arms and glories 
Be only dust? 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 97 

All rumor of its grandeurs pass away? 

Heroes, demi-gods and kings 

Be as men who never were? 

Its shrines, temples, trophies, fall to dust? 

Its mighty wars. 

The story of its fame, be lost? 

Resolve to nothingness? 

I am told of a star 

Huge as a thousand suns like ours. 

What vasty worlds revolve 

In its vivifying rays? 

Who dwell upon those worlds? 

Creatures of nobler mould 

Than petty race like ours? 

Do they toil like' us to feed 

The rapacious maw of Time? 

What is Time that we call him old, 

In presence of the slowly changing stars? 

Pale, melancholy orb! 
Desolation's prey. 
Sad epitaph to warn this world: 
'My doom is thine." 

In contrast with huge orbs of Space — 

Whole firmaments of suns and worlds — 

Prodigious worlds and stars, 

Awful constellations vast, 

This globe is but a speck, 

A mote, a tiny grain of sand; 

Imperious Man — a spark, 

A flash, a glint, a ray that fades. 

An atom blown to endless night. 

He springs from earth 

And gazes on the stars. 

And wonders deeply whence he came, 

Then falls into the grave 

And mingles with the dust. 

He's gone — forever gone! 

Hopeless, hapless Man. 

With awe yon glorious Sun we view, 
With vaster suns all outer space is filled. 
The scene dismays. No center, limit. 
End or bound, but everywhere, 
And still beyond, and yet beyond, 
The planets blaze and suns explore. 

All matter is instinct with life, 
Nor life can be elsewhere. 



98 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Constellations meet, burn to mist; 

Renew in grander, more luminous forms. 

Innate force, inherent law, 

Impel, control these elements alway. 

Uncreated, undestroyed, eternal orbs! 

Their doom is change — ceaseless change 

That fills stupendous lapse of time, 

With no final purpose Man can see. 

They flame, consume, renew; 

They wheel with slow, incessant change. 

Millions and millions of suns 

Bestrew the Milky Way, 

So utter far from earth 

They fade into a snowy mist, 

And men do prate of nebulae, 

Yet all these luminaries vast — 

All solar sights and scenes we view — 

Obey one star in Pleiades; 

Are held in place and move alway 

At influence of great Halcyone. 

Tremendous orb 

This Halcyone must be — 

A starry speck to us 

In midst of Pleiades. 

This awful Universe that spreads so far, 

Is but a speck 

In endless oceans of its kind 

That have no boundary or end. 

Changing but eternal Infinite, 

Its mystery doth appall — 

Tremendous, deep! It baffles human mind. 

Where dwells a silent, awful Force 

That slowly works out Immensity's plans? 

An Architect 

Whose colossal lines are never false? 

A Mathematician 

Whose calculations are so vast? 

A Poet, to conceive 

Such magnificent designs? 

Vain we ask derisive stars. 

Unbelieveable, inconceivable Space! 

Beauty, order, majesty, and fiendish cruelties 

Pervade it all. 

'Mong firmaments of universes vast, 
That glow in space that has no end, 
What petty thing is Man. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 99 

LIGHT LOVE IX BOHEMIA 

Eyes soft and sensuous, 

Languishing with love; 

With bouteous passion full 

And half o'erflowing; 

Lust scarce concealed 

Within their lustrous shades; 

From their liquid depths 

Suggesting forbidden things; 

Tempting with bewitching grace; 

Prisoning lascivious thoughts 

That issue to the light 

As sun rays traverse the air, 

Viewless, silent, yet subduing; 

Bidding passion kindle, 

And promising consent; 

Potent as the sighing winds are. 

And the odors of flowers, 

When they soothe us from toil; 

Melting with dreamy languor; 

Passive, yet with a spell 

That leaves no choice; 

Seeming to slumber, yet awake 

And strong in demands; 

Steeped in tenderness, 

Oppressed with desire. 

Beseeching love 

And the meed of love — 

Sweet voluptuary. 

Who resists their magic? 

From their inner zones 

A soul looks forth; 

It feeds on joy, 

It laughs with fullness; 

It revels in sense. 

Yet must it perish. 

The flowers in hue 

Are fair and matchless. 

A master's hand 

Cannot depict them. 

Yet the winds come 

And they perish. 

So perishes the soul 

And passes from being. 

So fair a thing as thou 

Must be no more. 

Adore thy shrine of sense. 

And live thy summer day — 

Once sped — it comes no more. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE IVY 

Not where Wealth and Fashion thrive, 

Or Pleasure lays its tempting snare; 
Not where Hate and Passion strive, 

Or monarchs bow with weight of care; 
Not where Pomp and Wrong allied 

Dazzle with their sickly glare; 
Not where palaces arise 

The Ivy twines its tendrils fair. ^ 

Not where storm of battle reigns. 

And men for crowns of glory dare; 
Where tyrants forge their cruel chains, 

And victims grovel in despair; 
Not where notes of triumph sound. 

And paeans float on smoky air; 
Not where revel bowls go round 

The Ivy twines its tendrils fair. 

Not where pageants mock the weary heart, 

And kings in pomp their will declare; 
Where Commerce builds its busy mart, 

Or Avarice its gilded lair; 
Not where plains rejoice with golden grain 

Whefe deeply smote the wounding share; 
Not where Plenty leads her smiling train 

The Ivy twines its tendrils fair. 

But when Ambition broods no more. 

And glory fades to empty air; 
When fanes are dust and pageants o'er. 

And cities robe in mute despair; 
When Ruin frowns where splendors shone, 

And Time lays hidden places bare — 
Then o'er the monarch's vacant throne 

The Ivy twines its tendrils fair. 



TWO OF A KIND 

"I'm tired out — exhausted, I declare." 
"O, I am tired, too. I'm in despair. 
Let me tumble here to tear my hair." 
"What's your trade, my weary one?" 
"Fool-killer, friend. My work is never done. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

DISASTER AT SHILOH 

The peal of arms was one unbroken roar, 

As when a tidal ocean shakes a shore; 

'Twas louder than when storms of heaven wage 

Their elemental war, Xvith sacred fire. 

Now smooth it rolled, then burst with awful ire, 

To crash and lash as with redoubled rage. 

Sometimes in fearfTil volleys cannon pealed; 

Their fiery shells from lofty woodlands tore 

Huge limbs, and flung them o'er the trembling field. 

The earth vibrated with explosions loud. 

And forest leaves shook in their smoky shroud. 

As mellow gales dissolved the battle's haze — 

Bore back the combat's clouds where gath'ring most. 

Far through the stately woods resplendent rays 

Flashed o'er the arms of either warlike host. 

For miles the volleys crashed from crest and glade. 

While ceaseless roared the dreadful cannonade. 

Plutonian thunders rolled through heaven's vaults; 

Fierce and impetuous the foe's assaults, 

Like surges rushing on impassive rocks. 

Our long lines wavered with repeated shocks. 

A crisis came — in vain the shrill command. 

Entreaties, threats, the fierce and final stand 

Of frenzied soldiers and their chieftains brave. 

Our legions broke before that martial wave. 

From wing to wing of all the Nation's host 

Disaster fell — once more the field was lost. 

But say not so — on fateful scenes of war 

No day is lost, no strife or blow is vain; 

Unquenched the glow of Fortune's changeful star 

While banners, arms and heroes yet remain. 



GLOEIETTA MOUNTAINS 

O'er forest hills, with canyons deep. 

How winsome — wild — is primal Nature's guise. 

With ocean sound a lonely zephyr dies. 

The mountains in soft wintry sunshine sleep. 

O scenes of peace where in old years was fought 

A fray that sent som« paladins to rest. 

The Southern Cross unfurled its baleful hues 

To free wild breezes of the boundless West. 

Then hillsides paled with Combat's crimson dews. 

The whirr of shell and whiz of cannon shot 

Awoke the silence of each sylvan spot. 

The blood of heroes bathed each lofty crest. 

At Santa Fe the visitor is shown 

A shaft in memory of those who fgH. 

They rest in peace in some wild mountain dell — 

Rude fighters who disdain a funeral stone. 



102 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



PHILOSOPHY OF CORTEZ 

Amid a selfish world — its clamors loud — 

How shall I win at last a lofty place? 

By genius, valor and ambition proud, 

Or by low artifice, corruption base? 

Creep through the mobs like pestilential air, 

Or like a thunderbolt my pathway tear? 

To force impetuous mankind will bow. 

And yet they hate the bays on Triumph's brow' 

They slander Force because it wins, what prize 

Is noblest, most alluring in its eyes,' 

And of the spoil will give no man a share — 

Appears in arms to guard its golden lair. 

How great is force! The human race arise 

In salutation to a heart of fire 

That will not perish in Misfortune's mire — 

With plaudits hail when crown of genius glows 

On power that disdains all human foes. 

He who excels mankind in selfish power. 

May hold his course with high, disdainful mien 

But Envy will assail him every hour. 

And only when his ready sword is seen 

Will Hate and Slander in his presence cower. 

In Ambition's chase, away with idle fears. 

Nor care for blood of man or woman's tears. 



CAMOEXS 

A voyager on many seas, 

He saw no shore with scenes to please. 

A scholar, soldier, epic bard; 

A free lance of unsullied fame, 

He ever seemed Misfortune's ward. 

From every stately path debarred — 

His native land's eternal shame! 

Forgetful of the blood he gave 

In her defence, (his poems grand 

Her glory bore to every land) — 

She laid his dust in pariah's grave. 

In vain the marble bears his name. 

His form, aloft, as if for him 

Were praise of earth or voice of blame. 

What if his martial bays are dim? 

With deep remorse and robes of gloom, 

O Lusitania, guard his tomb. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 103 

MACEO TO THE CUBANS 

Who bows a paltry slave, in low content, 
Nor hath a lofty thought or savage mood. 
Will have his fill of human servitude — 
For such as he the lords of Spain are sent. 
No right adorns a freeborn race to-day, 
That heroes did not fall in battle for; 
Which tyrants have not tried to wrest away, 
For liberty demands eternal war. 
Shall hate of tyranny forever sleep? 
No hope of freedom thrill this prostrate race? 
O, slaves, no more in subjugation weep. 
In fury arm — a curse for those who keep 
A sword undrawn, or yield a single pace 
When ruthless Power meets them face to face, 
Rebel! Spain is the sum of human ill — 
Withstand her minions with heroic will. 
From bondage fly to noble scenes of strife. 
Away with peace! It is the slave's device 
To shun encounter with remorseless Force; 
It is the craven's — coward's dull resource. 
No prudence now will slavish weal enhance — 
To arms! Upon the foe in wrath advance. 



PASSING THE GOLDEN GATE 

Adieu, O Lands, to me of pain — 

You'll greet no more these mournful eyes; 

To other climes of softer skies, 

Of greener shores, our vessel flies 

Far down Balboa's boundless main. 

O welcome winds from distant isles, 
O welcome suns of warmer glow; 
Hoar peaks all pale with crown of snow; 
And seas whose floods sway still and slow 
Where fr^agrant Earth forever smiles. 

Adieu, Camille! O think of me 
When far we cleave yon ocean's foam. 
Let all South winds that reach thy home, 
And ev'ry star in heaven's dome 
Bear messages from me to thee. 

My heart is thine — a pensive thought. 
Since years may pass ere we shall meet. 
Whatever lands my wand'ring feet 
Anon may tread, how passing sweet 
If thou, O love, forget me not! 



104 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

In those fair daj^s, when all is o'er 
That lures me from thy presence now, 
Though bridal roses wreathe thy brow, 
May I not claim, love, that thou 
Remember still the vows of yore? 

Alas! that naught is left to me 
Save memories — Love's tender woe. 
Ambition speaks — thy heartless foe. 
Ah! that I yield to folly so, 
And for a bauble fly from thee. 



THE CARIB CHIEF'S DAUGHTER 

"When knighthood uxis in flower." 

How fair the strangers were with faces pale, , 

With silv'ry arms and lustrous coats of mail 

That flashed beneath a cloudless heaven's blaze; 

With snowy plumes, regalia, lofty ways; 

With steeds — ne'er heard of in the olden days. 

Alas! the humblest knight of pallid face 

Was nobler than a prince of native race. 

But most her timid gaze fell on the one 

Whom all those fearless, warlike knights obeyed. 

To her Balboa was an orient sun 

Commanding fires of lesser splendor fade. 

In admiration, homage, passion, love. 

She viewed his knightly mien with raptured eye. 

He seemed a scion of the zones above, 

A bright arch-angel of the starry sky. 

How low — how most unworthy seemed she when 

She saw the king of all those warlike men. 

Long was the parley that in peace transpired. 

With signs, or Lascan words, the rover spoke. 

She lingered near, with wild emotions fired. 

At last her new-born love the silence broke. 

She bade her sire, in murmurs of delight, 

To sue for her the stately Spanish knight. 

Strange were the ways in that fierce torrid clime. 

That race among, and in that early time. 

No cold reproof the native chief expressed. 

Nor made a wonder of her wild request.- 

Her hand he gave unto the Spanish knight. 

Who saw with pain, and with grave courtesy, 

Revealed by signs his bosom was not free, 

For long ago he made his noble plight 

With pale fair lady far across the sea. 

In silent sorrow moved she then away, 

Nor from disaster of that evil day 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 105 

Had lover, pleasure, joy or impulse gay. 

Yet fair Castilian love across the sea 

Had few more moons of happiness than she. 

The peerless rover fell Davila's prey. 

In youthful glory, splendor, passed away. 



MY cho8p:n theme 

My chosen theme is peerless Man 

When Superstition's chains are gone. 

And queenly Science leads him on. 

I view him in fierce Glory's van. 

Resplendent chief of Murder's clan — 

Rebellious, wild, with heart of oak; 

Defiant of the foeman's plan 

While wreathed around with cannon smoke. 

Heroic in the bold assault, 

Ere pealing up to heaven's vault 

Are cries of victory and joy. 

I view him in his long employ 

Of glorious arts; his lustrous eye 

With genius glows; his lips are still; 

His hand obeys a regal will 

That gloomy Death alone may foil. 

Imagination gilds his toil 

With scenes that he alone may view. 

His pencil charms, his song is true. 

He fills with life the marble white. 

His music moves us with delight. 

Palatial halls he rears on high; 

His mighty fleets of steel go by 

To brave the tempest on the main; 

Around the world he flings a chain 

Of astral fire; repels the seas. 

Or bids the rival oceans meet; 

His air-ships mount upon the breeze — 

Leave earth and ocean at his feet. 

And float in heights of heavens blue 

Where never bird or eagle flew. 

He lords it o'er the sullen earth; 

The mountains yield their precious ore. 

While golden treasures have their birth 

Where barren plains unrolled before, 

The ocean blue, to Polar brim. 

Can veil no secrets from his eye; 

He measures earth and heavens dim, 

He weighs the planets floating by. 

As yet no limit hath been found 

To stay this proud arch-angel's lust. 

But on he moves, a god uncrowned — 

The wonder of this planet's dust. 



106 SONGS OF. A MAN W.,H O FAILED 

A REFLECTION 

The man who has a dreadful appetite, 
Has not a friend or coin — no bread or meat. 
The rich repine where chandeliers are bright, 
With countless kinds of dainties piled in sight, 
And swear like knaves because they cannot eat. 



SUNDAY NIGHT AT SHILOH 

Like some tornado launched upon its course, 

That wave of war moved on with fearful force. 

They fierce assailed our lines, from wing to wing, 

With ball and shell, with musketry and sword; 

They charged as fiends to deeds of murder spring. 

And "one huge mass in heedless fury poured 

To storm our guns; they scorned our leaden rain; 

They rushed like maniacs across their slain. 

"Bull's Run! Bull's Run!" defiantly they cried, 

A burst of thunder to their vaunts replied. 

Began the day in darkness to expire; 

Our cannons belcjied forth streams of smoke and fire — 

Hurled hissing loads of death; our muskets blazed; 

Like silhouettes traced on a lurid cloud, 

Fought cannoniers with hate and passion crazed. 

One moment lost amid their battle shroud; 

Then as it swiftly fiamed or slowly raised. 

Their forms were lined in vivid glory there. 

The firm hill trembled and the smoky air 

Was torn with iron, lit with fuse and shell. 

In swarms the whizzing bullets fell. 

Soldiers, with demoniac zeal inspired. 

With frantic speed drove down their balls and fired. 

Two sullen gun-boats on the flood below. 

With monster missiles raked the startled foe. 

That hill-top seemed a roaring, seething hell — 

A whirlwind breathing death, and smoke and flame. 

Then, sudden as the fearful tempest came. 

It ceased — a warlike burst of cheers arose. 

We had preserved our guns, position, fame — 

Triumphantly repulsed our savage foes. 

As darkness hid the bloody scenes of day. 

Our broken army massed in firm array. 

And yet, for miles, its fallen soldiers lay 

From where the camps were stormed that fatal morn, 

To where the waters hid our dead in scorn. 

An awful silence filled the solemn wood 

Where guard, reserve and watchful sentry stood, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 107 

Nor meager camp-fire cast its dang'rous ray 
Where, on the earth, exhausted thousands lay. 

All horrid scenes marred melancholy night. 
Like fiery .Etna in spasmodic play — 
To banish sleep with danger and affright — 
Our cannons hurled terrific, massive shells 
Amid the foe; with almost human yells — 
With fiendish force, they tore their dismal way. 
To waken sleepers with Plutonian screams, 
Or slay our foes in midst of peaceful dreams. 

It seemed once more, as writ in epics old. 

That gods in anger viewed our mortal war, 

For Nature's thunders through the midnight rolled, 

Avenging lightnings flung their bolts afar. 

The wind went howMng through the hollow wood, 

Cimmerian darkness o'er each army spread; 

On dying men, upon the passive dead. 

Chill torrents fell, to flow with human blood. 

From eve to dawn War's energies were plied. 

Flotillas bore across the swollen tide 

Our comrades of the Cumberland, whose mien 

In truth was bold, for they were fearless men 

As e'er won tribute from a soldier's pen. 

Morn saw a grand, imposing martial scene 

Lit by the rising sun's resplendent sheen. 

Unmindful of the dreadful slaughters o'er. 

In rival armies, on that lonely shore. 

Eighty thousand men in lines of battle wheeled, 

And mingled war-cries o'er the bloody field. 

Our host advanced and vengeful battle gave. 

War's music rang — the thunder of the guns; 

The cheers, the tumults, of our legions brave. 

With force as vast, and scornful of the grave, 

In onset came the South's impassioned sons. 

It needs no lofty or pretentious lay 

To limn the scenes of that immortal day. 

The foe put forth his power and his pride. 

The flower of his host in combat died; 

From ridge to ridge his beaten hordes were driven; 

Long ere the sunset tinged a stormy heaven, 

The slaughter ceased; the last loud cannon pealed; 

In rout, alarm, Rebellion's legions fled; 

The groves were flUed with wreck of battle red — 

With fallen heroes — wounded — dying — dead — 

For twice ten thousand men bestrewed the field 

Which these heroic armies battled for. 

All fearful scenes the woods, the vales, revealed. 

Our final cheers of triumph rang afar. 

To close an awful drama of the war. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE OC^EAX SHOHE 

If cares assail rove by the sea. 

Its friendly gales will cool a brow 

That melancholy darkens now — 

Roam by the sea, the changeful sea. 

More beautiful than Art can be, 

Sublimest of terrestrial things; 

Now stilled in silent majesty. 

Or, if the tempest-minstrel sings. 

It leaps to wrath with surges curled, 

That burst to foam. Hark to its roar 

That echoes till the mountains hoar 

Sway trembling where its tidals pour — 

Its foamy floods in anger hurled 

On ramparts reared of adamant; 

The storm-wraith shriejts, the breakers chant, 

And fierce the waters wild are whirled. 

Roam by the wide, eternal sea — 

The wonder of our moving world. 



LO! THE BRIDEdROOM COMETH 

In the Spring an old man's fancy 

Slyly turns to thoughts of love. — Tunison. 

Why has he married in such haste? 

An opportunity was embraced. 

He was lonely, melancholy, chaste; 

All round him was a desert waste 

If no Eve its bowers graced. 

And so he married in some haste. 



While foes denounce and prudes decry. 
Grandfathers still to Hymen fly. 
While four grandchildren shout, 
And mundane things turn inside out, 
With heart elate his conjugal mate 
Dines on golden plate. 
Ah, me! it's great — 
It's truly great. 



Of our lonely and amorous Autocrat a lady delegate to a 
Nebraska convention said: 

"He endears himself to us because, in so brief a time, he 
has been a widower, lover, bridegroom, and husband, a 
father-in-law and a grandfather, and soon, If the fates are 
kind, he may be lord of the whole earth." 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 109 

LLANO ESTACADO FIFTY YEARS AGO 

Here Espejo campaigned in Spanish days. 

A vasty plain beneath an austral sun — 

A waste unrolling 'neath Inferno's blaze. 

In aeons past its waters lost their ways, 

Its fountains fled in vapors, one by one. 

A melancholy Sphinx would brood content 

Amid this treeless region still as death. 

While Toltec empires to oblivion went, 

It bowed beneath a hot Sirocco's breath, 

It spread unchanged; eternal silence was 

AH round its plains — reached o'er them liiie a pall. 

It seemed outside the pale of Nature's laws. 

Its border was to men a fatal wall 

That few might wander o'er and yet repass. 

It withered 'neath an olden curse. Alas 

For fugitive, at sudden peril's call, 

Who in its bosom closed his dangr'ous flight. 

It frighted peaceful stars of night; 

By day the sun smote o'er it with his might. 

A brighter era dawns — rich vineyards, grain, 

Green groves, will shine upon this boundless plain; 

The crystal streams will find their ways again. 

This gloomy riddle of an age's flight 

A race assails, at whose decree the rain, 

The fires, the forces of the skies — will bow. 

And here supreme will happy Ceres reign, 

Though all is hopeless desolation now. 



DESOLATION OF TYRUS 

O, Tyrus, enthroned in the midst of the sea. 
Grown haughty with gems, with purple and gold. 
Thy heart with beauty and splendor is bold — 
Who shall avert desolation of thee? 

How vain are thy walls, O beautiful isle! 
Thy battlements hoary with old renown. 
The spoiler will soon thy temples defile. 
The flames will enfold each glorious pile. 
Thy towers be hurled in the green waves down. 

In thy courts and squares the flowerets bloom, 
They fill with odors the indolent air, 
But thy royal halls have a look of gloom. 
No mirth is heard in the lordliest room. 
No sound of joyance is echoing there. 
Shall sirens in robes of Tyrian fold. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

In voluptuous garbs of colors gay, 
Appease the victor of resolute mould 
Who will come to tear thy towers away? 

The scepter has passed from Phoenician seas, 
A crown been hurled from a radiant brow; 
Calamity broods on the wailing breeze. 
The merchants of isles will jeer at thee now: 
Aha! what city so fallen as thou?" 

In vain to the gods do the great ones call, 
In vain in thy temples high priests implore. 
Weep! Wail! for thy terrible fall. 
Ships will go out on the voyage no more. 
But blood of thy sons will crimson thy shore. 
"Ai! Ai!" the billows are moaning of thee, 
Tyrus will fall in the midst of the sea. 



A SCENE AT SHILOH 

[See Job's war horse in Prose Addenda.] 

Some cannons left us by the foe — 
These brazen pieces in a line. 
They mark an army's overthrow. 
For here it gave up in dismay 
Before the charge that won the day. 
Fine rebel guns — as fair they shine 
As when foes wheeled them in array. 
In stormy prowess to defend. 
They roared away to bitter end. 
And round them lie the gunners bold 
Who fought so hard this hill to hold. 
Those fellows died — they would not yield- 
To hold one spot of Shiloh's field. 
Here lies a lad who warred it well — 
Perhaps a mother's only son — 
Stretched out beside his captured gun. 
With sleeves rolled up, ramrod in hand. 
So youthful, stern — proportioned well — 
The look upon his face is grand. 
It seems a pity that he fell. 
I tell you, boys, this war is — well, 
Enough to make a devil smile. 
The very grass with blood is red. 
And all around fine horses pile 
The gory scene — most of them dead. 
The noble brutes, they seem to know 
There's peril where they see the foe. 
But face the musketry, the shell. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

And other music just as well 
As bravest of the soldiers do. 
And how we treat them wounded, too. 
We let them lie, to live or die. 
Or shoot them as we saunter by. 
And half begrudge so base a shot. 
But what a burst of tender thought 
O'er brutes in woe, when soldiers true 
(Their bodies turn yon hillside blue) 
Are lying now just where they fought, 
By thousands o'er this bloody field. 
With foes to share their dreary lot. 
For miles unhappy wounded strew 
The woods around. All hearts are steeled 
O'er brutal scenes that speedy blunt 
Each finer sense. Grief will not serve. 
Where none may from stern duty swerve, 
A man who cannot muster nerve 
Has no business at the front. 



ALOTIPIQUE 

[From "Sun Worship Shores"— lost in San Francisco's 
burning.] 

I find alone a ruined hall. 

With fallen dome, vine-covered wall — 

Its plazas bright with hues of gold; 

The groves that wave in splendor round, 

Seem portions of some noble ground 

Where beauty flourished manifold. 

There is a perfume of the wild, 

An odor sweet and undefiled. 

Floats to the gates of this old hall. 

I know not whence it may arise. 

What wood exhales it to the skies, 

What wind expands it over all. 

And yet 'tis sent and ever sent. 

Suggesting aisles of vast extent, - 

Where limpid pools of water lie; 

Where flowers bloom in masses dense. 

Whose odors pall the weary sense. 

Whose colors vex the jaded eye. 

But sadness reigns — the lord is cold 

Who lavished here his hoards of gold. 

His lemans gay are valley mold. 

The wine-cup shines no more within; 

No revel sounds, nor music peals. 

Nor sirens joy in ways of sin. 

No vestige here the past reveals. 

But reptiles crawl where Beauty's train 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Moved proudly on, and ravens wheel 
Where noble knights wore shiny steel — 
For Nature claims her own again. 
Who dwelt herein? A Spanish chief 
Who passed his age in grandeur brief, 
To sate at last a Borgia's lust? 
Who wasted gold like idle dust, 
And made some native lord his slave? 
Some free lance of the ocean wave. 
Who came to slay the Spanish thief? 
What matters now if love or fame 
Upon each mind held higher claim? 
Each had the bauble of his day, 
And lived his life and passed away. 



A ROVER'S ADIEU 

"In thy dark eye's splendor, 
Where the warm light used to dwell, 
Weary looks, yet tender. 
Speak thy last farewell." 

Our summer barks rode tranquil seas; 
We idly lashed them side by side. 
In vain their sails allured the breeze 
That came not as such gales as these, 
To die upon the waters wide. 

Our summer barks rode stormy seas; 
We lashed them firmer side by side. 
For, O fair love, we did not please. 
Though hurricanes swept o'er the seas. 
To cast them loose till scenes like these 
Might prove the bitter storms defied. ^ 

Lo! now we part, no more to sail. 
As we have sailed, lashed side by side. 
There is no grief will now avail. 
And either heart might faint or fail 
If gentle thoughts should now prevail. 
So, fling to breeze each snowy sail. 
And bear away o'er waters wide. 

Therefore, O love, with' gallant heart, 
I bid you now a long adieu. 
Let no bright tears in sadness start, 
To lend to Grief a keener dart 
As far we thread the waters blue. 
But strive, O love, with gracious art, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 113 

To hide the wounds the fates impart, 
And heed alone the cruel chart 
That guides us on the ways we rue. 
Some day, perchance, on happy seas, 
We'll meet once more with kindred breeze. 
And find each loving heart is true. 



RULING MOTIVES 

Most human tales this gloomy moral prove — 
The fear of men Is better than their love. 
Each battles to achieve his chosen ends; 
Good will and interest make the best of friends. 



THE WORLD WAR 

[See Note in Prose Addenda.] 

A haughty apparition came 
To portals of the Hall of Fame. ■ 
He waved the brazen doors aside. 
'Now halt you there," the warder cried, 
'And humbly stand, submissive bow. 
To enter here what claim hast thou?" 

'To set the abject races free, 
I slew the Austrian despot's son — 
The prince the crown descended on — 
And mighty things were caused by m 
I set the sluggish world ablaze, 
The heavens burned from sea to sea; 
Great armies moved upon their ways, 
For armed men by millions rose. 
The banded nations fought their foes. 
I set the human race at war. 
The vasty planet felt a jar. 
Since earliest dawn of strifes of yore 
Ne'er had Mars such rule before. 
I broke the seal — it was to be. 
Now ope your vaunted gates to me." 

Far off was heard the combat's din. 
A sullen gong in signal rung. 
And wide the gilded doors were swung. 
The spectre bowed and entered in. 



114 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE COWBOY SAID 

If you've got the Mighty Dollar in your clothes, 
You needn't worry much how the season goes, 
Nor care a bloody red for former friends or foes. 
Take your noble ease — forget your many woes. 



CLEAEIXG THE COAST OF TEXAS 

[1871.] 

The crescent shores are dazzling bright 

Beneath the sunset's glow, 
And, deluged with the yellow light, 
The distant headlands woo the sight. 
As gleaming o'er the billows white 

They check the ocean's inward flow. 

Slow sinks the Sun in gorgeous west. 
Obscured behind his golden fleece; 

The lambent glory round his crest 

Sinks on the ocean's lonely breast, 

And lights the surge's wild unrest 

Till Night commands the pageant cease. 

Then swift the clouds sweep o'er the sky. 

Responsive to a typhoon's roar; 
The angry waters struggle high. 
And vainly seeks the weary eye 
To pierce the gloomy wastes that lie 

Between it and the fading shore. 

The vessel plunges on its way, 
Our native clime once more is past. 

Our path is through the ocean spray; 

And where the fearful breakers play, 

And where the whirlwind seeks its prey, 
We still must fly before the blast. 

Perchance the gale that drives us on 

May sweep us to our doom; 
Perchance the stars, so pale and wan, 
May see the last lorn prospect gone. 
And ere the light of laggard dawn 

Our minute gun may boom. 

Ah! fiercer yet the tempest swells. 

As darker yet the heavens grow; 
A deeper shade o'er midnight tells. 
The blast shrieks like a demon's yells; 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 115 

Dread thunders rumble forth their knells 
In monodies of woe. 

Ah! what a scene on which to gaze — 

An austral ocean torn to foam. 
While mountain high the billows raise, 
And in its lurid splendor plays 
The baleful lightning's angry blaze, 

Imperious in its cloudy home. 

In fragments hang the bursted sails, 
The masts bend low but do not break; 

The sternest eye a moment quails, 

The warmest cheek a moment pales. 

The firmest heart a moment fails, 
And nerves of iron shake. 

But true the oak as massive steel, 

Back to its place it springs again. 
And while the sullen thunders peal. 
And ghastly horrors round us steal. 
And frighted cravens frenzied kneel, 

Down- sweep the storms of frozen rain. 

The slipp'ry deck with ice is laid, 
Beware the surge that sweeps it o'er. 

For vain the hand that's reached for aid, 

And vain the cry for succor made, 

When hero hearts become afraid 
That never cringed at death before. 

Some hideous power directs the gale. 

Some hellish spirit seems to reign; 
Above the prow the waters scale, 
And should the flimsy hatches fail. 
Our fate may form some solemn tale 

To warn the daring from the main. 

But gallant forms spring up the mast; 

They cling to yards that dip the spray; 
And while the ship is hurled and cast 
As though each moment were its last. 
They furl the canvas from the blast, 

And set the hurricane at bay. 

Soon torrid shores will crest the wave, 

Arrayed in thousand peerless dyes. 
Bright suns will pave the Sea's blue nave; 
Then rave, ye stormy tempests, rave. 

And waft us to that Paradise. 



116 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE TEMPLE OF PATIENCE 

These words adorn its lofty portals wide: 
'I conquer Fame, and all in earth beside; 
I baffle Fate — ay, mock at Fortune blind. 
Who enters here leaves all his woe behind. 



TO THE PLANET MARS 

[Composed at night on a skirmish line at Shiloh. I then 
thought Mars was a ball of fire.] 

Red star of War! while armies sleep. 

To march to slaughter at the dawn, 
'Tis mine a faithful watch to keep. 

Lest suddenly the foe come on. 

I peer into the gloomy wood, 

Alarmed by some portentous sound. 
Then gaze on thee, red orb of blood. 

Whose beams the warring world confound. 

O from among the stars retire. 

Elsewhere send forth thy rays malign, 

Thou baleful globe of restless fire, 

Man's blood is poured for thee like wine. 



THE "NEW DAY'— 1920 

Harem rule has certainly come — 
Twenty-five million solid votes! 
Preachers, pedagogues and petticoats! 
'Twill surely put us on the bum. 



BEULAH LAND 



Our myths and fables much deceive. 
The best of creeds is — disbelieve. 



RUINS OF PALENQUE 

When races, empires, disappear — 

How vain the pitiful career 

Of one mere idle dreamer here. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 117 

-BACK TO THE FARM^' 

Civilization begins and ends with the plow. — 0. M. Roherts. 
Like a Chinese gong, 
(With chorus wrong) 
The milkmaid's song 
Comes floating along. % 

With many distresses, 
Fat shepherdesses 
In decollete dresses 
Jump like frogs 
Through barnyard messes. 
Bulls and rams and geese, 
Chickens and ducks and dogs. 
Butter and eggs and grease; 
Smells and odors that never cease 
From stuff that makes the soil increase; 
The muttered grunt of ravenous hogs, 
Bray of mules in shadeless pens; 
Noisy screech of guinea hens; 
Giggle and howl of visiting friends, 
The story long that never ends — 
Babel and clamor that never mends! 

Cincinnatus left his plow 
To put his zeal to better things; 
Our Putnam did, (there was a row — 
He fought against the kings; ) 
And Robert Burns some ploughing tried; 
He feigned in this to feel a pride. 
But quit the job— O thoughtful Bob- 
To soar on Fancy's wings. 
However fine the tale may be, 
No agricultural slob was he. 
The poet oft deceptive sings. 
Mouths must be filled. 
Earth must be tilled; 
It is a toil that has to be. 
And yet, while human life is free, 
Immortal gods! no farmer life for nle. 



RETURN OF THE DOUGH BOYS 

[1919] 

In triumph wear the victor's wreath 
Fair Woman twines with trembling hand; 
At Beauty's call men march to death. 
And safety crowns a menaced land. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A WISCONSIN SCENE 

Ambrosial hills, on either hand, 
Are green with crowns of old, primeval trees; 
Fair wheat fields waver with a fitful breeze, 
Or, lit with gold, the tall blades idly stand. 
The ring-dove mourns above this northern land- 
All 'round its placid, sunny landscapes please. 
Down yonder vale, as framed in groves of green, 
Behold an inland sea's wide waters blue, 
Like some rare painting of a view marine 
From subtle hand of some old master true. 
On high the massy, snowy clouds are seen 
Slow floating through the summer heavens blue. 



WALT WHITMAN VERSE 

The Dictionary man says a monomaniac 

Is one who is crazy on one subject. 

Machine poets are monomaniacs. 

And some are dipsomaniacs. 

They imagine the stuff they write 

Is poetry, when, in truth. 

It's only trash. All poets are crazy, 

But doggerel-fiends are worst — 

Yea, bugs indeed. They go the limit. 

They make us tired. 

They put us on the ragged edge. 

This is poetry, a la Walt Whitman. 

Walt was a poet — once in a while — 

In spite of much hog-wash he wrote. 



PROCRUSTEAN DAYS 

Once boldly rose — but now with shame— 

The musical wail of the Kansas mule. 

How cheap the men are, meek and tame. 

In this crazy land that women rule. 

Down-trodden Man some day will rise. 

And wreck this fabric most unwise. 

And start a Mormon paradise. 

Of the two, by any test. 

The Mormon plan is much the best. 

Alack-a-day! with language vile. 

The men have gone to Dead Man's Isle. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

JOHN BROVrX'S REVERIE 

Prophetic spells around me fall, 

I have a dream of things to be. 

I hear the deep-toned trumpets call, 

And drum-rolls sound from sea to sea. 

I hold in poise a giant force 

That might reverse this Nation's course; 

Deep prisoned in my fevered brain 

Are thoughts I now would voice in vain. 

Could I forsee my soul's desire 

My words would glow like mental fire; 

In passion would my thoughts be poured 

Till millions woke to seize the sword. 

I pierce Oppression's flimsy veil — 

I see the wrong, I hear the wail. 

O impulse pause! O passion, stay! 

Remote, afar, is action's day. 



THE PIOUS GRAFTER 

When a time of trouble comes 

The pious grafter wakes. 

The smoothest of all bums. 

He gathers up his chums 

With their hymn books and their fakes; 

He hollers and he hums. 

He bellows and he drums 

Till the hemisphere he shakes;' 

While others fight for mighty stakes, 

He gathers in the money that he makes. 



BYROX 

Genius, Glory, in his throne room sat. 

Feudal baron, lord, aristocrat; 

Of haughty Norman lineage born. 

He viewed imperial pomps with scorn — 

Sought liberty and worshipped that. 

No fulsome notes debased his high refrain. 

But Freedom's voice rang out in every strain. 

He left his fame, his haunts of ease — 

All scenes that might a sluggard please — 

To die in Freedom's holy cause. 

For this he won the world's applause. 



120 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

ATTILA 

Born beneath an evil star, 
He led vast hosts in clamorous war — 
To die supine in Beauty's fatal spell. 
Ildico wrought her purpose well. 
A rosier cyprian's footsteps ne'er fell 
Along the sunny boundaries of Hell. 



THE VILLAIN DIED 

He saw that rhyme would make good prose, 

Then put his claws into my verse. 

The wreck dismayed — it caused me woes. 

For this, and sorrows worse, 

And sundry things I'll not rehearse. 

With fervent lips, in language terse, 

I launch on him a poet's curse. 

Let none a poet's wrath deride — 
In fifteen months the villain died. 



THE FATE OF BRUCE IMLAY 

[On Sunday evening, April 14th, 1912, the steamer Titanic 
went down with 1503 persons, including 688 members of the 
crew, and great numbers of women and children. Superin- 
tendent Imlay was saved in a life boat.] 
Ignoble choice a Briton made 

When mariners were bold, and women were afraid. 
Impending death, deep fear and panic. 
Proved his soul was not Titanic. 
A shattered vessel reeling in the sea. 
Was not the place for coward such as he. 
A boat awaited, safety was in flight; 
Dames and children, beautiful and bright, 
He left to wail in terror and affright. 
And saved himself — his might was "right." 
Despised by all; despised by Bruce Imlay, 
He sought a palace hall and hid away. 
Wines, luxuries, he had; the mercenary smiles 
Of dainty female slaves, whose crafty wiles 
Could scarce conceal their inward scorn; 
In drunkenness and ease, from day to day. 
He wore his worthless life away, 
And cursed the dismal hour he was born. 
Such was the fate of Bruce Imlay. 

"O teach boys how to live," our Mentors cry. 
Yes, and also teach them how to die. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 121 

WINTER IX FLORIDA STRAITS 

With rapture's eye, a silent ocean view, 

All silvered o'er with semi-tropic beams; 

A shoreless wave in purple splendor gleams 

Beneath' a canopy of tender blue; 

The gale a dying breath of summer seems. 

Its pinions bear no melancholy sound. 

How clean, how fair, the sapphire sea around. 

The torrid wave, the sky's etherial dome. 

In beauty blended, form proud Nature's home. 

We voyage now where gray De Leon sailed, 
Who sought a fountain of eternal youth. 
What wonder visionary hopes prevailed, 
That Fancy revelled in a garb of Truth, 
That mighty chiefs believed, and sailed the seas 
In quest of wildest of weird mysteries. 

We dream of happiness, when mortal pain 
Is all the goal our weary hearts may gain. 
We mourn apace, then fondly dream again 
Like brave De Leon and his knightly men. 

Across this wave in stately, stern array 

De Soto's fleet sailed on a later day. 

Far zones allured that rumor paved with gold. 

Those mail-clad heroes of intrepid mould 

For toilsome years warred through unpleasant lands. 

But never grain of gold shone in their hands. 

With sorrow worn, De Soto found a grave 

Within the Mississippi's turbid wave — 

While Famine wasted his companions brave. 

When Spanish power passed, this ocean bore 

Upon its waters blue a people strange 

From every nation, isle and shore. 

Whose dream of life was lawless change. 

'Twas here the Buccaneers were wont to roam 

Without a creed or king, a land or home. 



THE GENIUS OF GOOD NATURE 

Caesar shone in every walk of life. 

And in a ruthless age his faults were few. 

Writer, speaker, statesman, chief in strife. 
He had the genius of* good nature, too. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE MINSTRELVS ADMONITION 

[From "The Griefs of Bohemia."] 
Mad chevaliers and singers grave, 
Mj^ life hath been so brief a span, 
I scarce may name what most I crave — 
I am content with what I am. 
I ask but simple ways of peace. 
That drowsy sunshine o'er them fall; 
That roses swoon along each wall 
Where odors teem and sweets increase. 
Nor ever Glory's thrilling note 
Above the scene defiant float, 
To bid its dreamy quiet cease. 
I was not born 'neath martial stars, 
I do not court Ambition's bays. 
Nor can perceive in bloody wars 
What should arouse triumphant praise. 
O shun corrupt Ambition's path, 
Abjure the slave's low greed for gold. 
And sing, O bards, in gen'rous wrath. 
To make the fallen races bold. 
Aspire to reign in Danger's hour, 
At spotless Honor's high command. 
But draw no sword, with hireling hand. 
In lust of gold or thirst of power. 



PILGRIM FATHER TERCENTENARY 

I'm very weary of those ancient men. 
With tales of how and why and where and when 
They landed on a wintry shore. 
Three hundred years ago or more. 
With guns, tall hats and saintly ways. 
And spotless characters we all must praise. 
They made of piety a gruesome fake, 
And burnt old women at the stake. 
"Allow no witch to live," they cried; 
Then torch and blaze they fast applied. 
They frowned at sin and merry revels, 
And flogged old men to cast out devils. • 
They were so good, old annals say. 
They would not kiss their wives on Sabbath day. 
With nasal twang and nose on high. 
They sang their hymns to stormy sky; 
They made blue laws to make the people blue, 
And cursed the land with theologic stew. 
No man could think a thought or two — 
They'd stick him in the stocks at once — 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 123 

Blasphemer, demon, wretch or dunce! 
They'd make him quick such freedom rue. 
The only thing they did that I approve 
Was this: when wives forgot to love, 
But made a bedlam of the family fold. 
They'd call such dame a "common scold," 
And ere her water-proof was donned 
They'd souse her in the village pond. 
The drunkard's fate they did deplore. 
They preached right hard against his booze. 
And yet a drink they'd ne'er refuse 
If tendered soft behind the kitchen door. 
'The earth belongs unto the saints," they said; 
'We are the saints — the Book says so." 
They heeded not the Indian's complaints, 
But took his land — a hundred miles or so — 
Then gravely knocked him on the head. 

I thank the gods the Pilgrim sires are gone, 
That times have changed, and happy earth rolls on. 



ST. GEORGE'S CHAXXEL OX A CLEAR DAY 

The glassy tide in its dormant pride 

Spreads boundless beneath the sun, 
And a misty haze on the horizon lays 

Like the smoke of a battle won. 
The breezes bland from Albion's land 

Move lazily on their way 
Where sea-nymphs hid imperiously bid 

Meridian splendors play. . 
There's many a scene with shores as green. 

With billowy wastes as fair. 
Where the lineaments bold of the mountain peaks 
cold 

Loom out on the dreamy air; 
Where Nature's hand in characters grand 

Has written her emblems of might, 
And the sea and the land are daintily planned 

To thrill a lone heart with delight; 
And the eye may range through measureless change, 

And limitless regions of light — 
But choose for me this beautiful sea 

As it glitters beneath the sun. 
And a misty haze on the horizon lays 

Like the smoke of a battle won. 



124 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE BIG BOOK 

If trusted friends betrayed, 

Put it in the Big Book; 
If clouds of grief dismayed, 

Put it in the Big Book. 
If life has been a losing game, 
And you have partly been to blame, 
Don't hang your head in silly shame, 

But write it in the Big Book. 
If pleasures past some worries bring. 
And sombre shadows round you cling 
Because you did some knavish thing, 

Write it in the Big Book. 
And if you view with bitter hate 
Some clique or clan degenerate. 
And long to shoot each reprobate. 
Exude your wrath in words of weight 

And put it in the Big Book. 
O, if you did, or didn't do 
Some craven deed or impulse true; 
If memories, your soul pursue 
Concerning divers things you rue. 
Put it in the Big Book. 
If life itself a burden grows. 
And oft you pine for Death's repose, 
Write out your multitude of woes 

And put them in the Big Book. 
At other times don't ope the Book — 
Ne'er give the cursed tome a look. 
But leave the stuff you've written there 
For moths to eat and bugs to tear. 
The Big Book is to peace opposed; 
Except when writing, keep it closed. 



WOODROW LOVES THE LIMELIGHT 

In sunny France, in storms of fight. 
Where Kaiser Bill thought might was right. 
What did you learn, my gallant wight? 

"I learned, alas! in storms of fight, 
That fame is like a thief at night. 
Applause of men is ever sweet. 
Let History its tale repeat. 
Robespierre, so fond of praise. 
Could talk and talk for days and days 
Of justice, love and righteous ways. 
Where deadly shell with fury screeches, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 125 

The dough boy fast a shell-hole reaches, 

And ponders over Woodrow's speeches. 

Where clarions ring and drummers drum, 

And folks for comfort never come. 

The military arguments 

Of folks that live in canvas tents. 

All go to shov^', 'tis only this — 

In battle fierce it's hit or miss. 

And Woodrow loves the limelight. 

In smoky scenes of much affright, 

Where men are not too proud' to fight, 

It seems an observation trite 

That Woodrow loves to talk and write, 

And keep himself in limelight." 



CHARLOTTE CORDAY 

"These formalities are needless. 
I killed Marat." — Charlotte Corday. 

O strange the wondrous music of her tongue. 
Her lofty mien dismayed those ruffian foes; 
Upon her cheeks the tints of roses clung. 
Her eyes — great, lustrous orbs! like stormy night 
They shone; so wild — so wonderfully bright! 
Beneath long lashes flashed magnetic light. 
Around alluring lips there was a trace 
Of gentle sadness, as for others' woes — 
A pity Honor's gen'rous nature knows. 
Despite her deed she had an angel's face. 
About her shapely neck, so pearly white, 
Her chestnut hair in massy ringlets hung. 
Her beauty was indeed a winsome sight. 
Her hand was small as e'er a minstrel sung, 
And soft as e'er in lover's hand was laid — 
It clove a monster's heart with dagger blade. 

A while the low-browed judge in silence mused, 
With daunted look — with wand'ring, downcast eye, 
As though he fain would say what heart refused. 
At length he met her gaze, with air confused. 
'She slew Marat," he growled, "and so shall die." 

She smiled — it was a sweet, a pensive smile 
That lingered years within the memory 
Of those around; she gave no vain reply. 
But moved beside the waiting armed file 
That led her out in girlhood's bloom 
To hide her beauties in a felon's tomb. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



AFTER SHILOH 

How balmy was the forest air, 

For southern Spring moved on her way 

With snowy blossom, bloom and spray. 

Flung round her pathway ev'rywhere. 

The mocking-bird, in frenzied strain. 

Poured forth sweet ecstasy of pain 

From every cool, ambrosial shade. 

Scenes of renown, where myriad forms 

Were laid at rest — in silence laid — 

When storied Shiloh's awful storms 

Of war were o'er, now spread arrayed 

In carpets of rich vivid green 

Where fairies, angels, might have strayed. 

How winsome Spring breathed o'er the scene — 

Robed Slaughter's home in happy smiles. 

Huge woods were clad in foliage dense. 

And shining lines of snowy tents 

Receded far through sylvan aisles. 

Cool crystal rills in quiet poured 

Their sinuous ways 'tween mossy banks 

Where late deployed impetuous ranks — 

Where sped the missile, shone the sword. 

Where War's dun breath had weighed the breeze, 

W^as Garden of Hesperides. 

Clear was the bugle's mellow call. 
With melody it seemed to fill 
The drowsy wood — then slowly fall. 
Colossal camps were strangely still. 

* IS * * * * * 

O plan absurd of Folly's brain! 

An army brave as ever shone 

On Roman field or Grecian plain — 

That o'er the European main 

Had hurled a tyrant from a throne — 

Its force consumed in pageants vain. 

In petty strife or vile repose, 

In all the arts a dullard knows 

Until a wily foe had flown. 

'Tis vain to join in Glory's chase. 

When owls usurp an eagle's place. 



A SOLDIER'S LIFE 

Though nigh or far his banners range. 
Through scenes familiar, scenes all strange, 
A soldier's life is ever strife, 
With wild romance, excitement, startling change. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 127 

TO A SOCIAL CLUB FAR AWAY 

There's a surging sea before us, 

And a gloomy waste around, 
And the angry heavens o'er us 

All day have darkly frowned, 
And gales that seem to master 

All things that meet the eye. 
But drive us on the faster 

Where sterner dangers lie. 
All nature is in travail. 

The billows e'en complain, 
Then who shall sneer or cavil 

With cynical disdain, 
If I shall own a sadness 

As ]\Iemory portrays 
Those scenes of glowing gladness 

We knew in other days? 
Thosfe fleeting scenes of pleasure 

That sped so swift away. 
When Joy filled up its measure 

And ev'ry heart was gay; 
W'hen Youth in haughty madness 

The gauntlet fiung to care. 
And never sigh or sadness 

Could hope to enter there. 
We crowned the hours with roses. 

Nor marked them as they went. 
Nor how each year discloses 

Some deeper discontent; 
Nor dreamed how soon our number 

Would be a broken thing, 
Or who would lowly slumber 

Beneath the flow'rs of Spring. 
We heeded not the morrow, 

Or what its dawn would bring; 
We feared no hand of sorrow 

The aching heart to wring. 
Ah! Grief has given lessons 

We may not soon forget. 
And time has thinned our numbers 

Since last in joy we met. 
Then fill the hours with gladness, 

And revel while ye may. 
For life is full of sadness — 

O whirl it swift away. 



BUYING TITLES 

'How much are princes now per head?' 
'A million dollars, miss," he said. 



128 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE DELUSION OF C^\BPvILLO 

[Discovery of California.] 

What shall we call this weary sunset shore 

Imperial Spain hath sent us to explore? 

Camillo, versed in poesy and song, 

Who loves romances — has a mien of woe, 

As if in sorrow for some grievous wrong 

Wrought in the golden clime of Mexico, 

Presents a name to us, most noble knights, 

And California is the rover's choice. 

It pleases well — soft as my lady's voice. 

Mellifluous, romantic, too, and fine 

As love made warm with rich Castilian wine; 

Suggestive of a land of pure delights, 

Of golden days; of love-lit, starry nights. 

Camillo found this name in quaint romance 

Of olden time — a Saracenic tale i 

Of Moorish love — of war's unhappy chance. 

And sundry ills that Paynim joys entail. 

This barren shore is worth no sov'reign's claim. 

'Tis lonely, unadorned, its outlines tame; 

Therefore we'll aid it with Camillo's name — 

The province California meets our glance! 

A savage people wander to and fro 

Where no delicious fruits will ever grow; 

Where not a note of human pleasure sounds. 

Where even blessed water scarce abounds. 

There is no trace of ore, no silver, gold — 

No palaces that we might rob or hold; 

There's naught that avarice, adventure bold, 

Would prize in all these pagan vallies lone. 

From equatorial clime, to poles. 

Far as we roam or mighty ocean rolls, 

O knights, it is the one Gehenna known. 

What can our king do with such heathen zone, 

But send his friars here to gather souls? 

Make angels of poor California's own? 

Array its native sons in Roman stoles. 

And have such dreary land to Hades blown? 



A STAGE CHORUS 

[On the stony stage road to Silver Reef, Utah, in 18.80.] 

Bumpity bump! 
Bumpity bump! 

O lud gud— 
Bumpity, bumpity, bump! 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 129 

CONCENTRATED LIE 

[Written before the World War.] 
History is a lie agreed upon. — Napoleon. 
The crimes and follies of mankind. — Oibbon. 
"Happy the land that has no history." 

Egypt was great, and robbed the Asian lands 
To far India's line — robbed Afric, too — 
Burnt, pillaged, wasted and enslaved. 

With temples, palaces and royal fanes, 
Thebes reigned imperial a thousand years, 
And golden tribute drew from many lands. 

Assyria plundered wide, also Babylon. 

The Persian and the Mede returned the bloody call 

That Egypt made, and fiercely robbed and slew. 

The Greeks consumed the Persian hoards. Also 

What Egypt's fallen cities yet contained. 

The Roman crushed the Greek — and half the world 
beside. 

The Goth, the Vandal and the busy Hun 

The Roman robbed; the Danes, the Norman knights, 

O'ercame and robbed fair Albion's isle. 

The Spaniards robbed Peru and Mexico. 

The Anglo-Saxon took the red man's land, 
(Which he had seized from races further back). 

This outline rude is but a glimmer of the tale 

That tiresome grows, to prove that might is right. 

All petty states did what they could, as chance allowed. 

Devouring other petty states, as in the sea 

Fish of size the smaller fish devour. 
"Eat or be eaten! Kill or be killed!" 

Is Nature's law to creatures of the wood. 

Throughout the world, in ev'ry zone and land, 

Man's ancient avocation is pursued, 

And he most bloody of all beasts of prey. 



WHEN A WIDOW'S VERY FAIR 

A wise man says that when a widow's very fair 
Supreme attention should be paid the am'rous queen- 
That she should to a monastery cell repair, 
A doting husband soon disport upon the scene. 
Or she be buried well out in some valley green. 
• This wise man says a special widow case requires 
Attention ere a husband's funeral day expires. 
An old and ugly widow, who is rated sour. 
May be left at large, seeking whom she may devour. 
9 



130 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE TOMB OF BYROX 

[In 1871 I visited Newstead Abbey — the home of Byron; 
the old church at Hucknall-Torkard that entombs the poet's 
dust; and Annesly Hills, the home of "Byron's Mary."] 

The gloomy church in slow decay 

Seems fitted for his last repose, 
For centuries have passed away 

Since first its humble walls arose, 
And yet in homely strength it stands, 

A monument of cycles flown; 
Ah! withered are the faithful hands 

That reared aloft its ancient stone. 
Around its walls, now aged and hoar, 

A thousand graves are thickly spread, 
Where sleep the valor and the lore 

That once in field and forum led. . 
Their shattered slabs, beneath the sun, 

Recount no tales of honors past — 
Their epitaphs have one by one 

Been blotted out by rain or blast. 
The rose-flecked vines, in mantles wide. 

Stream o'er the windows stained within, 
As though in tenderness to hide, 

Their images from outward sin, 
And as the breeze with gentlest care, 

The inflorescence softly sways, 
A mournful sigh steals on the air 

That murmurs of departed days. 
The aisles are dim with softened light. 

The pillars old are dusk and bare. 
And here and there a tablet white 

Records whose bones are crumbling there. 
Strange shadows move at Fancy's freak, 

And silence reigns so deep and dread 
'Tv/ere sacrilegious but to speak. 

For 'neath the stones on which you tread. 
Secure from Slander's venom tongue. 

Or ruthless Hatred's reeking blade. 
Shrined only by the songs he sung, 

Britannia's peerless bard is laid. 



THE MAIN (tUY 



Of devils, deities and fates. 
And unseen forces, snares and baits 
That shape the course of modern States, 
The mighty Dollar dominates. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 131 

RICHARD THIRD 

[In the city of Leicester, England, on a barn that stood on 
the bank of the river Soar, I "saw a tablet that read: "Near 
this spot lie the remains of Richard III., the last of the 
Plantagenets, 1485." His dead body was thrown into the 
river at that point.] 

I much admire that fearless English king, 
Although his crimes and cruelties 1 hate. 
How bravely did he battle Fate, 
And make his warlike island kingdom ring 
With tumult when he fell from high estate. 
Resolved he fought when friends and vassals fled — 
He died with England's crown upon his head. 
Some olden tomes his cruelties deny. 
'Tis writ that history is but a lie. 
Though Venom soiled his royal fame, 
There."s none assail his martial name. 
Or scoff at valor shown in dying hour. 
Though gone was hope, his knights and power. 
He wielded arms, with demon hate, till slain. 
Subfnission, flight, defeat, won his disdain. 
Though Pate shall pour its darkest ills on me, 
Stern Richard shall my dauntless model be. 



ISLES OF FONSECA 

"[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 
Where sunlit, foamy waves expand 
Around these fair volcanic isles, 
Tall, granite peaks adorn the land 
And one eternal summer smiles. 
A lawless rover of the seas. 
In sailing o'er Fonseca blue. 
Once well declared such isles as these 
A home for gods; he waved adieu 
To perils on the Spanish main. 
O'er these fair scenes to careless. reign 
As vassal gay of sov'reign Sun — 
Here passed his days in am'rous ease, 
And wasted gold by valor won. • 
For glowing native girls are true. 
Where blue Fonseca's waves expand; 
The fruits are clad in golden hue, 
The fragrant atmosphere is bland — 
O, occidental Cyclades! 
The balmy vales and seas of blue 
The mind — the soul — the fancy, please. 



132 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

KEXILWORTH 

A castle famous in proud feudal days, 

A ruin mantled o'er with ivy now. 

Weird echoes of the past 

Float o'er the twilight scene. 

Heard you the clarion peal? 

It bade the vassals arm. 

O list you well — a voice proclaims 

The stern conditions 

Of a tournament-at-arms. 

The neigh of battle steeds, 

The trumpet's call. 

The onset's rush, 

The ring of knightly steel; 

A burst of cheers — 

Gay Beauty's gentle voice of praise, 

The haughty tones of royalty — 

All these I hear. 

More tender notes 

Pervade the twilight air — 

The melody of lutes. 

The song, the serenade; 

The low, impetuous words 

Of passionate love. 

shrines that lure me 

From the prairies of the West- 
Bid the sails of my bark 
Shine far o'er purple seas — 
The tombs where Byron 
And the Bard of Avon sleep, 
And where the god-like dust 
Of proud Napoleon lies. 

1 pause awhile 

Beneath the walls of Kenilworth, 

To muse on tales 

Writ by the Wizard of the North. 



A LARGE VOLUME 

As tiresome* years departed, one by one. 
The brilliant things he should have done, 
The splendid goals he might have won. 
The cash he spent in merely having fun; 
The awful things he never should have done. 
The things that he would like to do — 
His troubles old and troubles new — 
Would make a book to weigh a ton. 
And still his sad account a while must run. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 133 

THP: PEDAGOGUE'S DREAM 

A conclave of diplomats, 

Of whom He was Which; 
A palace on the Bosphorus — 

Each day it made him rich. 

An imperial war fleet,. 

By the Idiots maintained; 
O'er seraglio and city 

A Caesar he reigned. 

The whole world obeyed him — 

Its adoration paid; 
His soldiers were millions. 

To make the folks afraid. 

One cold, frosty morning 

His air castle grand 
Came tumbling to pieces. 

At Freedom's command; 

And the pedagogue, humbled. 

Like an ostrich at bay 
Ran his neck in a sand pile, 

And wilted away. 



GALVESTON ISLE 

The Mexic sea unrolls in beauty far — 
No canvas glows with yonder purple hue. 
How vain is Art where Nature's glories are: 
Who shall portray the restless Ocean blue? 
It is a zone of dangerous mischance; 
Of mystery, adventure and romance; 
Rich in its lore of wild and wayward life; 
Of shipwreck, peril, bold escape and strife. 
Perchance in pomp across this vision grand 
Cordova sailed for Montezuma's land; 
Unto this isle Lafitte, the corsair, came 
To lead his outlaws to a scene of fame. 
When Britain's navies and her arms essayed 
To blight our shores with red Invasion's woes. 
The corsair gave our native land his aid; 
With hero Jackson tamed our British foes — 
Then burned his pirate fleet on yonder tide, 
Save one fair, stately ship, the "Ocean Pride." 
With chosen chiefs he sought remoter seas— 
To other lands left lawless memories. 
His grave is on a lonely, verdured isle 
Where torrid seas in fadeless glory smile. 
This very shore, beside this ocean's flow, 
Was trod by heroes of the Alamo. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



IN CUBAN WATP:RS 

Slow moves the vessel on her weary way, 

The dying breeze scarce fans the tide, 

And rainbows gather o'er the spray 

That feebly dashes from her side; 

No surges in colossal fury play. 

Nor lift their crests in foamy pride. 

The nautilus scarcely deigns to ride 

Upon its voyages to fairy land, 

But leans upon its satin side 

As anchored by some human hand. 

And lures the day-beams as they glide 

Prom sunny sea to lovely land. 

The gorgeous sky with brilliant tints 

Is grandly rich within the west. 

And golden rods from heavenly mints 

Down in the tide are deeply pressed. 

The land lolls in the drowsy blaze, 

The groves hang down their haughty heads 

The mountains blue undaunted gaze 

Whence all the glow of splendor spreads; 

And such a beauty gathers round 

The earth, the seas, and sunset skies, 

I wonder if a soul e'er found 

A fairer clime in Paradise. 



NOT HOMELESS 

The foreign lands, the mountains and the sea; 
The cities great — hives of humanity — 
The prairies wild, had homes for me. 



SUN WORSHIP SHORES 

Sun-worship zones my song inspire. 
Colima flames with crest of fire; 
Resound afar its murmurs hoarse. 
Land of romance! where scenes transpire 
As if in scoff of mortal ire; 
The tidal wave sweeps on its course. 
The firm hills move with Nature's force; 
Yet, O, a spell of beauty reigns 
O'er mountains, ocean, valleys, plains. 
Why rove the shores of Grecian isles. 
Or sail the blue Venetian w^ave, 
When flood so fair in starlight smiles? 
Why o'er Cisalpine valleys rave 
When Zuma's vale the eye beguiles? 
O Beauty's home is on this shore — 
Who well surveys will roam no more. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 135 

DAXTOX 

["My name is Danton, well known in the Revolution. My 
abode will soon be nonentity, and my name will live in the 
Pantheon of History."] 

It was an era wild of human rage, ' 

When Hatred, Passion, wrought their bloody deeds 
Like hungry tigers loosened from a cage. 
Where Tyranny had sown its baleful seeds, 
The whirlwind swept away the Feudal Age. 
A kingdom's pillars fell like withered reeds. 

Voluptuary, chief in reign of gloom, 
Whate'er the dark mistakes of Danton were. 
With lion heart he rose to meet his doom. 
His fierce demeanor smote his foes with fear; 
His fiery lips rained forth such hate severe, 
That foemen trembled in Death's council room. 
No wretch he seemed, appointed for the tomb; 
No fallen ruler, palsied with despair, 
But some high judge wrought up to fury there. 
So near his courage swayed a doubtful scale, 
E'en Terror's monster *, with abhorrent air. 
Betrayed alarm lest Danton should prevail. 
The ordeal o'er, he marched with fearless mien 
To brave the horrors of the guillotine. 



Robespierre. 



A YOUTHFUL THRENODY 

Earth seems a Hell. 

Life came unasked, 

And so comes woe. 

It thickens on us, 

It is our heritage. 

Goaded by desires 

Implanted in us. 

We have no means to stay them. 

We bend and strive and strain. 

And all is naught. 

I denounce existing things — 

There is no ruling hand. 

A gale is forth. 

Ominous to Man, 

Scattering wide disaster. 

A whirl of ruin 

Roars around us, 

And there is no haven. 



136 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

FRAXCE 

[1870.1 

O bleeding and grand yet fallen land, 

Whose splendor may vanish for aye, 
What touch can restore the masterly hand 

That pointed thy legions a magical way 
To triumphs so vast the world stood aghast? 

In wonder it gazed on thy towering might, 
While kingdoms went down before the wild blast 

That fitfully rose from tumults of light. 
O, if the wierd Grave could assemble thy brave 

Embattled beneath the great Corsican's glance, 
While he led them on thy glories to save, 

What arm could arrest their haughty advance? 
If Helena's lone king to contest could spring. 

With power to marshal and hosts to obey. 
How nations would tremble and Europe would ring. 

As he smote the stern monarch who cumbers thy 
way! 
O, if the proud dead can gaze from o'erhead, 

To pity thy throes of terrible pain, 
How Napoleon mourns thy majesty fled, 

And chafes to be with you again! 
How his falchion bright, through the varying fight. 

Would flash like lightnings of God; 
How the foe in affright would fly from his sight, 

Or crouch where the conqueror trod! 
' Destruction would spread with a mantle of dead. 

The fields where his thunderbolts fell. 
And the plains where his vengeance impetuous sped 

Would glow like the portals of Hell! 
But his fierce race is run, his work is undone — 

Lo! Destiny mocks at his powerless pain; 
An eagle that soared till it challenged the sun, 

Back to the earth must flutter again. 



MEXICAN BORDER IN 1916 

A nation of cowards. — Judge Landis. 
Though Freedom's cause is ever right. 
We hoist a flag of lily white 
And whine: "We are too proud to fight. 



NOVEMBER, lJ)i>0 



Returns compiled as best we can 
Disclose that Woodrow "also ran. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 137 

IN PARIS 

[1871.] 

My thoughts go forth in warlike rhyme 
To martial souls of every clime; 
To soldiers of each rival race, 
Each loyal to the cause he shares, 
And faithful to the flag he bears. 
And brave in his appointed place. 
Their varied standards I admire. 
Their signs of rank, the arms they wield, 
The faultless movements they acquire, 
Their coolness in the face of fire, 
Their valor on the battlefield. 
I love the annals of their deeds. 
And honor him who vainly bleeds, 
Alike with him who needs not yield. 
Let all brave men receive their fame. 
For after gods proud heroes came. 



MY MOTHER 

'Ignore the common goal," she said, 

"Leave fools to gather rubbish vile; 
Lift thou thine eyes to heights o'erhead 

And seek to bask in Glory's smile. 
A sluggard falls in midnight shame. 

The Shylock's pomps with him expire. 
But heroes leave a deathless name 

For countless ages to admire. 
Strong be thy will — as iron strong — 

To cleave a path to high renown. 
And, peerless in the fields of song. 

To millions will thy name go down. 
The years but drift to Death's dark shore- 
Let proud ambition sway thy mind — 
So live, that when thy race is o'er 

Resplendent trails will glow behind." 



OUR PLANET'S AT)YAGE 

A thousand million frighted ones. 
Sailing space on flimsy ball of earth. 
Await a great catastrophe — 
The tragedy of human kind! 



138 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

PHILOSOPHY OF LUCRETIUS 

We prate of mystic powers, 

As oft we speak of Jove 

Or mighty Hercules, 

But know them idle myths. 

There is no Fate, no Destiny, 

To shape the lives of men; 

No supernatural force. 

Only Nature's innate law — 

Cold, merciless, exact. 

Effect? from Cause. Unknown cause 

Is Chance, and even Chance 

Has hidden laws. Man lingers on this globe 

By sufferance, the sport of Change, 

Of grievous ills. He wars his way. 

And at the last should die 

With sullen, silent, deep content. 

He needs no deities, no gods of air. 

He journeys to Nonentity. 



. TO HORTEXSE 

I realize that all r seek 
Is transient as the words we speak; 
Is evanescent as the bloom 
Upon the rose just ere its doom 
Is whispered by the chilling breeze — 
Thou alone hast power to please. 
And far the goal my heart would win. 
More happiness is garnered in 
One hour of love with you alone 
Than e'er Ambition called its own. 
A truce to Hope — it is a cheat 
That thrills us deepest ere defeat. 
There are more joys, O love, in thee 
In one brief moment than whole years 
Have often yielded unto me. 
Life is but bitterness and tears; 
There is no substance in it all — 
'Tis emptiness and utter woe. 
Let Fame's reluctant laurels fall 
On other brows — ah! be it so; 
I little reck so thou but smile. 
For life is such a little while 
It scarce is well to reach so far— 
To waste it in such ceaseless war; 
Be thou my solace and my star. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

GUATEMOZIN'S APPEAL TO MEXITLI 

O Spirit of a mystic, awful past! 

Supremest of all Heaven's regal train, 

Thy brilliance o'er the flood of years is cast. 

With Time — Eternity — for thy domain. 

Where shines thy royal throne, O martial star? 

Thy legions where? in fadeless luster bright. 

In glory to dismay poor mortal sight. 

Array fierce armies for ferocious fight; 

Yea, close this hapless land's disastrous war. 

Death-angel wild, in boundless heavens high, 

Triumphal throned in empyrean sky, 

With countless camps that reach remotely far 

Past azure, starry plains all unsubdued. 

For scenes of strife thy glorious powers are. 

In fury close this rueful mortal feud. 

Strange robbers come to spoil the Zones of Sun, 

To slay thy chosen people, jeer of thee. 

Thy faithful mighty empire is undone. 

Poor Guatemozin, on his vassal knee. 

Implores for aid, O martial star, of thee. 



BIVOUAC IX TENNESSEE 

A summer scene! In sunshine lie 

Green rolling hills of native maize. 

Whose wavy masses woo the eye, 

And lure July's rapacious blaze. 

Green, luscious maize! Avoided where 

The sons of ease in sloth repair, 

To vainly spur their dull desires. 

But prized where soldiers laugh at care. 

Or feast beside their bivouac fires. 

This region teems with wildwood floweri 

Ah! truly milk and honey flow; 

Warm skies dissolve with solar powers. 

The cotton rolls in plumes of snow. 

All round the queen Pomona reigns 

O'er leafy vales, o'er fruitful plains. 

And all the balmy zone contains 

Of treasured fare is freely ours. 

The good old rule, the simple plan, 

Suffices for the sons of Mars 

Who tread in Danger's reckless van, 

To bear aloft our sacred Stars. 

How Nature feasts our lawless clan — 

'Tis homely spoil for giant wars. 

A summer gale meanders by; 

With mellow voice it seems to sigh: 

'O merry be — you soon may die." 



140 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

PLACE DE LA CONCORDE 

"I am the State!" and earth was play-ground of the kings. 
And men were low as brutes and creeping things. 
Crime, brutality, unbounded lust. 
Derided Law, debased humanity to dust. 

Here vengeance reached the cursed brood at last. 
And lecher, traitor, tyrant, fitly died. 
Let execrations on their graves be cast. 
Their loathsome memories be spurned aside. 



ARC DE TRIOMPHE 

[Written in Paris in 1871.] 

Beneath this beauteous arc, 
From capitals on conquered European plains, 
Crowned haughtily with' bays of tumultuous war, 
The victor hosts of the great Napoleon came. 
Colossean scene of Glory's dang'rous dream — 
Arms, trophies, ferocious pomps, wild music of war. 
Upon this wide, imperial road rolled the guns 
That shook all Europe's thrones at Austerlitz. 
Ah! late has Time his bitter jest made o'er it all. 
Where strode the regal Corsican with Caesar's mien, 
The German kings their myriad banners wave. 
In a glorious fane of conquered France 
Germania's lord has donned his mighty crown. 



MADRE D'ORO 

He had lavished his years on the Mother of Gold- 

The famous mine the Indians guard. 

Wild were his tales by a camp-fire told, 

Of dangerous wars, rude fortunes hard. 

He was friendless, pale, alone and old, 

But his eye was bright, his spirit bold. 

He knew he would find the Mother of Gold. 

For oft he fied the Apache bands 

With bullets of gold in his withered hands, 

Which the Indians shot instead of lead, 

Buf his comrades he left behind him dead. 

Their bones are white on the desert sands. 

Each gave a scalp to an Indian lance. 

It was out on the wildest border line. 

No rover had seen that wonderful mine. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 141 

And ever survived the desperate chance. 

He was old indeed — so old that ore, 

Though richer than ever was found before, 

Would never do much for his last few years, 

But he laughed outright, with merry tears 

That barely dimmed his restless eyes. 

As he told of a sweet, a winsome girl, 

An only child — he would yet surprise 

With a diadem of snowy pearl. 

And all the coin her home would hold. 

Some day — when he found the Mother of Gold. 



JOAX OF ARC 

With plundered gold they bought the pretty girl- 

These "gentlemen" and lords of chivalry, 

From whom such "noble houses" now descend — 

These bishops, knights and "prelates eminent." 

They locked her up, deserted and alone. 

With shame, insult, abuse, they broke her heart. 

They tortured her — "God's people" well knew how- 

And when from agony she had "confessed," 

They took her out and burnt her at a stake. 

When time has partly veiled this awful crime, 

They canonize the maid and call her "saint." 

I'll give the soldier-girl a nobler name. 

I'll call her Womanhood in martial guise. 

And heroine who for her country died. 

By this the world will love to keep her name. 



THE OLD CONQUESTADOR 

Farewell adventure's dang'rous game. 

On alien shores we meet our foes; 
Like worthy knights deal doughty blows, 

But when campaigns have reached a close. 
We've paid with scars for knightly fame. 

And only sigh for sweet repose. 



HE HAD SOME FRIENDS 

'Have you no friends?" "O, yes, a few. 
In times of trouble they are true. 
When I am told to take a walk. 
They hustle out and promptly talk — " 
He pulled some dollars into view. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

COKTEZ AND PIZAKRO 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 

Cortez, of high, transcendent fame, 

Won through these lands his deathless name. 

His treasure ships, his galleons, rode 

These balmy seas; his dauntless knights 

Foreswore past loves for new delights — 

Castile abjured for scenes like these. 

Close by their camps yon river flowed. 

Where palm trees lure the spicy breeze. 

And lavish pomps of Nature please. 

What lawless life those rovers led, 

In flow'ry zones they warred for gold. 

The march, the foe, the onset bold; 

The rich returns from forays red. 

Stern honors when each raid was o'er, 

The revel wild or light amour. 

Though millions 'neath his sword were tamed 

No grisly chief that leader famed. 

Soft were his lustrous oval eyes — 

Dark, tender eyes, full often sad 

From weary thought or sorrows had; 

Pale, noble features — thoughtful, wise. 

Were lighted by those lustrous eyes. 

Fair seemed his ways to fearless knights 

Who knew no code of human rights 

Except that gold — all gold implies — 

Should be the spoil of him who fights. 

Of coarser vein, of ruder mold, 

Pizarro won his wreath of bay; 

Of harsher mien, of manners cold. 

Fame lured him not; he craved for gold. 

His life's romance had waned away. 

O, Pleasure, Love, had had their day; 

His knightly prime had lost its flower. 

He sought uncurbed, imperial sway. 

He had an old man's love for power. 

When selfish courtiers chose to fly, 

Well knew Pizarro how to die. 



THE POETASTER 

He writes his trash with painful care — 
(It almost makes his fingers bleed), 
But never thinks while drudging there. 
His rotten stuff no one will read. 
A dismal case it is indeed. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 143 

DARK DAYS IN THE JERSEYS 

In silence of wrath George Washington rode 
At the head of his troops o'er a wintry land. 
Deep traces of care on his countenance showed, 
For the foe prevailed! O somber the load 
That heavily weighed on his weary brain, 
But bold his heart — ah! never a trace 
Appeared on his proud, his manly face, 
Of thoughts of flight or of base despair. 
He would fight while he found a soldier there. 
With a dangerous fire his calm eyes glowed. 
A few thousand men obeyed his command, 
And they wearily trudged through a wintry land. 
Their tents, equipage — their blankets were gone. 
They were starved and cold, but still marched on 
With the faith of children in Washington. 
Their clothing was old and hanging in rags. 
But they bore their arms and their battle flags. 
His purpose from them the leader concealed. 
tie was marching down to Trenton field, 
And he routed the foe when his cannon pealed. 
With a fearless heart and a Spartan band, 
He drove Despair from his native land. 
The star of Hope that day arose, 
Undimmed it shone to the warfare's close — 
Till the land was free of its foreign foes. 
All hail to the men that Washington led, 
Who never for snows or dangers cared. 
The world admires the deeds they dared. 
Reveres the soil on which they bled. 
They fought in rags — but the foeman fled. 
Hurrah for the field their blood made red. 
High glory to him who never despaired. 



EXULTATION OF PIZARRO 

Aha! that gold is mine — that mass of gold — 

All a stately palace hall will hold. 

'Tis crowded to the very dome with gold 

In massive bars, in Suns beset with stones 

As pure as ever gleamed on royal thrones. 

Or shone on crown or oriental diadem. 

I thought a serpent glared — it was a gem 

That gazed on me from out that golden mass. 

What costly stones flash on me as I pass, 

Imbedded in the virgin ore; alas! 

How shall they from their places fair be torn? 

O, I am rich — I'm rich at last! so rich 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

That never man of hapless woman born 

Had spoil enough to gaze on me with scorn. 

I hear of men whose fevered palms do itch 

For gold, and 1 could slay such greedy slaves 

In droves — by crushing them with precious ore! 

And then conceal their idle, bloody graves 

With shining piles of gold-^ay, fling out more, 

And would not then deplete this mighty store, 

I told this Inca of a fell disease 

The Spaniards had, that naught but gold would cure- 

A plague arising from a heart impure. 

That baffles all the skill across the seas. 

He swore to me upon his bended knees 

That he would fill that palace hall with gold, 

If I would set his royal person free. 

Thereon the silly pagan put his trust in me, 

And had his vassals bring enormous wealth 

To cure that ill — to give my people health! 

Pizarro's health appears much better now — 

No fever burns his philanthropic brow, 

But soon the Inca's body will be cold. 

I'll have him killed, now that I've got his gold. 

Perhaps I'll torture him to learn of more 

His people may conceal in places far. 

What Spanish eyes e'er saw such wealth before? 

I'll be a prince — yea, wear a noble star, 

And yet I've seen the day I've needed bread, 

And had not where, at eve to lay my head. 

They say 'tis evil to desire gold — 

These ruthless human wolves in quest of prey, 

Whose very souls — for coin — are daily sold; 

Who rend each other for some paltry pay; 

Who rob, who plunder, through their petty day, 

But grey Pizarro will accept of gold. 

He knows what princely avenues unfold 

If merry villain shakes a bag of gold. 

Ah, me! I'm crazy with such pleasant sight 

As all this monstrous pile of metal bright. 

It fills my savage soul with deep delight. 

I must away, to rest these eyes, and then 

I'll hasten back to gaze — to gloat, again. 

Meanwhile, with torture, faggot, rope or knife, 

I'll rid this frightened Inca of his life. 



LANSING AND BRYAN 

With sceptre in hand and crown on his head, 
"Remove those baubles," the Autocrat said. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 1^ 

DARK DAYS IN liOHEMIA 

I do not write, as wrote New England's bards, 

In pleasant parlors, rich with works of art. 

Where ladies call to leave their kind regards, 

Or pay the tribute of their gentle hearts. 

I've found the world a brutal battle ground, 

And I have fought beneath a banner black, 

But why portray the scenes that I have found? 

The wreck and ruin round my stormy track. 

There is a goal that shines on me afar; 

Mayhap allures with cruel, baleful beams; 

Perchance derides — as dread as failure seems — 

For heaven's orbs in all their courses war 

Against achievement of my youthful dreams. 

My weary soul is faint with hope deferred. 

The world may never dream or know a word 

Of all the strains with which my fancy teems. 

As I have lived, so may I die — unheard; 

My verse may molder in some cellar heap. 

And I in some ignoble grave may sleep. 

Defeat, for me, makes all this world a tomb. 

TTiese thoughts are stern — they fill my mind with gloom. 

Wild, restless moods awake my soul to life. 

And I renew what seems an idle strife. , 

How can I write like Fortune's petted sons, 

Whose tender skies are soft with summer bright? 

O weave a song for earth's unhappy ones — 

The fallen heroes of disastrous fight. 



EVE BEEORE CORIXTH 

"Rouse up the soldier ere the morning slar." 

Soldier, sleep! for the dawn will bring 
Roll of drums and thunder of strife. 
Missiles of death on viewless wing, 
Will hiss in hate where slaughter is rife — 
Where bullet and shell and shrapnel sing. 
And clieers of stormers on hilltops ring. 
And war-dogs bay for the soldier's life. 

Soldier, dream — O dream of the day 
When rumble of strife is heard no more; 
When hosts of war have melted away. 
And cannons have ceased their murderous play, 
And volleys have lost their terrible roar. 
Dream of scenes you have left for aye. 
For morn will bring your very last day; 
The grave awaits when battle is o'er. 



SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

J5ATTLE OF I IK A 

[1862.1 

In somber desolation stood 
A forest wide — in silence and in gloom; 
As moveless as the cerements of a tomb. 
Autumnal eve stole o'er this lonesome wood — 
This mournful scene for contemplations deep, 
For awful thoughts on mysteries profound; 
Where ambitions, passions, cruelties might sleep, 
Nor human hate invade such holy ground. 

A burst of cheers from armed lines, 

The gleam of steel in solemn twilight shines! 

Dark banners toss, battalions hasten past; 

Red autumn leaves whirl from the cannon's blast 

As rival columns in confusion close. 

A charge — repulse, a fearless counter charge. 

The roar of arms! In desperation, foes 

Commingle o'er the combat's fearful marge. 

Huzza for strife. Fast fall fierce Valor's blows. 

No man a touch of gentle mercy knows. 

In crimson rills the blood of soldier flows. 

AVhile thunder peals resound, the foe recoils. 
Then hurries to ferocious charge once more. 
Fresh masses in disastrous onset pour. 
A blaze of Hell dismays — the strife is o'er; 
The Union guns are plashed with human gore. 

A brief cessation comes, and then a peal 
Of rifle arms; a clash of level steel 
Where cannons volley with intenser zeal. 

In vain incessant efforts of the foe. 

His host retreats within the dark wood's gloom 

Defiantly, in sullen overthrow, 

Pale stars the misty dome of night illume. 

Dense ebon shades in mercy intervene. 

Like awful palls thrown o'er some fearful scene. 

War's hapless votaries expire between. 



AKK OF THE COVEXAXT 

Like the wonderful king who pleasantly reigns, 
The Ark they built with money and pains 
Had beautiful words and not any brains. 
Since bunk was plenty and brains were few. 
The Ark went down in the ocean blue. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

PHILOSOPHY OF PIZARRO 

For precious ore I have much need, 

So "Rob the Robbers" is my creed. 

To plunder nations is no wrong, 

For earth belongs unto the strong. 

This life's a wheel within a wheel. 

An idle, worthless, timid sire 

Transmits no proof, resentful steel 

To bear the blows of life's ordeal. 

To strengthen in life's fearful fire. 

The strong prevail, or prove their worth; 

They tear their weaker comrades down, 

And then array with crest or crown. 

To loudly vaunt their "noble birth." 

They hold their spoil by force and wrong, 

Their gilded lairs are glad with song, 

For earth belongs unto the strong. 

Let each secure a spot of soil. 

Then war his ruthless way along. 

And wrest away a share of spoil — 

This world belongs unto the strong. 

The weaker creatures round his way, 

Man kills for pleasure or for prey. 

In turn they kill all things they can, 

For murder seems creation's plan. 

This robber's den with purple dome, 

Appears Pizarro's proper home. 

He seeks to win what seems his own, 

By force — by no man's royal grace. 

Nor has alarm, nor fears to face 

The peril that surrounds a throne. 

The king of Spain will be his prey. 

If e'er they join in crafty play. 

And issues prove Fernando weak. 

Pizarro covets royal sway — 

The prizes men of honor seek. 

Nor cares for love, nor casts vain eyes 

On crowns that shine in yonder skies. 

This world his field of high emprise, ' 

Ambition — Gold! his Paradise. 



TECUMSEH 

"The Sun was my father. 
The Earth my mother. 
And death ends all." 
The savage knew as much 
As proudest lore reveals. 



148 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

OVn I\IKSSA(iE OF PKACE 

[See Prose Addenda. | 

I saw a ship cram-full of gold, 
With Bibles and rum down in its hold. 
And checks and drafts and wealth untold. 
"O where are you going my sailor bold?" 
"Going to help the missionaries." 

I saw a Captain climbing a hill, 
Witli soldiers keen to do his will. 
All ready and armed to maim or kill. 
"O where are you going, you sons of ill?" 
"Going to save the missionaries." 

I saw a ship on the China seas 
With soldiers and sailors as thick as bees, 
And cannons on board as big as trees. 
"O rt'here are you going with things like these?' 
"Going to save the missionaries." 

I saw some Chinamen hanging high 
On gibbets aligned along the sky — 
And lots of coffins hurried by. 
Of a mandarin I questioned why. 
He gave to me a low reply: 

"They scared the missionaries." 

I saw a big ship sailing back 
With money and coin in many a sack. 
And heathen heads all turning black, 
Arrayed with care upon a rack. 
In some surprise I asked a mate 
Why he carried such funny freight. 
He answered me with air sedate: 
"They scared the missionaries." 

We need a bigger national fleet 
With dynamite guns nobody can beat. 
Then our message of peace we needn't repeat. 
To every chief on the China coast 
We'll shout ashore with haughty boast: 
"You read that book, you heathen Chinee, 
Or we'll blow your city clear over the sea." 

O, leave the pagan with a child-like smile 
To hunt for Heaven in his own style. 
And use your money to feed the poor 
That Misery leaves at your front door. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 149 

BEOTIIEIMX-LAAV TO THE GOVERNMENT 

While Woodrow was strolling 
Among scenes consoling, 
And was gently cajoling 
A King and his peein— 
Their great plans extolling — 
The Devil was coaling — 
His fuel controlling; 
Hell bells were tolling, 
Political knells knolling; 
Sob-sisters were polling 
Their first vote, with tears 
And emotional fears, 
But Brother-in-Law Boiling 
Kept things rolling.^ 
He gathered no cash 
From profiteers rash — 
No forty thousand bucks 
With the best of lucks, 
In a great, huge chunk! 
That's newspaper bunk — 
So it appears. 

A well-informed gentleman states 

There were no concessions, divisions, rebates, 

Or other things some fellow narrates. 

Everything went for the old United States. 

No bribes were paid or ills devised, 

But ships that cost Four Billion bucks 

Were plundered first, then "amortized" 

By pleasant looking government ducks. 

Who also "amortized" the bucks. 

The Idiots now, without protest, 

Will drudge and tug and do the rest. 



With a wireless station in easy call, 
AVoodrow knew nothing about it all. 



DEATH AVOrNI) OF CORDOVA 

What cares Cordova for a wound, 
For marches long or ocean's flow? 
His dreams are sweet on any ground — 
He fights where challenges the foe. 
His valor burns where Glory smiles. 
Where Fortune lures with angel wiles; 
Heed not a savage foeman's blow — 
Where bays are won high blood must flow. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

LOST EMPIRES 

[From '•Sun Worship Shores." See Prose Addenda.] 

Hath lofty muse of Story wrought 
On most momentous of her themes? 
O, Fancy soar in somber dreams, 
And revel in portentous thought. 

A withered empire lies in woods 

Where olden Glory weeps in gloom — 

In melancholy solitudes; 

In vasty solemn shades that loom 

Like hoary Time's mysterious womb. 

Far in a wood of shadows vast, 

Aloof from wond'ring mortal gaze, 

Repose the ruins of the past — 

Great cities of primeval days. 

Their very names were white with age 

Ere wiped from Time's historic page. 

Huge avenues, true as a die. 

Paved smoothly o'er with massive stone. 

Pierce wilderness — green mountains lone — 

To where Phoenician cities lie. 

Stupendous walls, fanes, temples grim. 

Are hid by foliage and limb. 

For Man has gone — has left his own. 

Nowhere is sign or trace of him. 

Here Glory reigned in olden time, 

When Asshur was in early prime. 

When Europe was a savage zone. 

How long ago these temples gray 

Arose with monolith of stone. 

No mortal now may truly say — 

'Twas long ago — in former day. 

The wreck of pleasure domes is spread 

Beneath a restless torrid wave; 

The ocean monster's young are fed 

In revel halls of princes dead. 

And swim along a city's pave. 

The ships of Ormuz once did pour 

Their spices, treasures, on a shore 

That now is vanished Empire's grave. 

The land of Ophir, rich with gold. 

Was where these waves of purple rolled 

On glorious isles in days of old. 

Here came the shins of Solomon, 

Far sailing o'er the western seas. 

Past austral islands, one by one. 

Their Tyrian sails flown to the breeze. 

Or furled, by worshipers of Sun — 

TTndaunted mariners of Tyre, 

Fierce devotees of sacred fire. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 151 

Great palace halls were built of stone 
As mighty Egypt built her own; 
Huge temples rose to golden Bel, 
Where human blood in torrents fell 
For welfare of the Summer Zone. 
To Ashterath were altars built, 
Where gory streams were freely spilt. 
Of Nineveh here all was known; 
Here voiced astrologer and seer. 
And all Chaldean pomps were here, 
Star-worship and all starry lore. 
These temples were in utmost yore, 
When o'er the world Sesostris warred. 
Ere Judith smote her heathen lord — 
When splendor was in Indus hoar. 



VALLEY FOKCiP] 



What friends at Valley Forge had George the Third? 

What powers there sustained the British Crown? 

At mid of night the northern gale was heard, 

And wearily the stormy snows came down. 

At morn, December skies wore Winter's frown. 

The starving soldiers, pale with cruel cold. 

Around their waning fires unhappy stood, 

Or marched in arms across an icy wold — 

Their ghastly trail was tinged with human blood. 

Pale Famine, too, sustained the British Crown; 

All viewless roved the fiendish foe Despair, 

But Washington and Liberty were there, 

And all in vain the stormy snows came down. 



MOUNT TACO^^LV 

The Indian loved this noble peak 
That wand'ring dudes call Muntraneer; 
He heard his deities in thunder speak 
From out its clouds, when eve was near; 
On high they passed in vivid flame. 
Tahkomah was the olden name 
He chose — mellifluous, soft to the ear. 
The trapper, hunter, soldier knew 
No other than the savage gave. 
Now cities line the western wave. 
And aliens name the peak anew. 
'Twill bear no name of foreign buccaneer- 
On truthful page Tacoma will appear. 



152 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

XAPoi.EON IN oBscrun Y 

[Written in the garden of the Tuileries in 1871.] 

Here lone he strolled in youthful years — 
Unfriended, lost in dreams of pride; 
Here, penniless, he burst in tears, 
Or darkly pondered suicide. 
The pangs of penury, unrest. 
Quenched not the fires within his breast. 
Young, lithe, erect, slight as a girl, 
Soldier-like in step, with bearing proud; 
Dense hair that fell in wave and curl 
Around his shoulders like a cloud 
Wherein the tempest finds a home;^ 
Firm lips that spoke a will of steel — 
Immutable as heaven's dome; 
Fierce eyes whose glance you half could feel, 
So piercingly they gazed; whose glow 
Was eloquent of lofty woe, 
Imperial pride, unflinching zeal. 
And slumb'ring yet transcendent power; 
( In bitter gloom they seemed to lower 
On vacant air, as though his brain 
Revolved deep thoughts of savage pain 
He would not banish; then they grew 
Triumphant in their baleful hue 
As though Imagination threw 
Around some scheme you could not guess. 
The halo of profound success ) ; 
Fair features in heroic mould, 
For avarice had ne'er controlled 
His thoughts, to stamp its craven lines 
Upon his brow, nor passions base. 
Since each low pursuit swift defines 
Its hideous brand or secret trace; 
An air that haughtily bespoke 
One born not for Submission's yoke. 
But framed by Nature for command; 
One who had been, in some soft land, 
Enthroned in ease, a poet grand. 
Whose stormy numbers idly flung 
To list'ning throngs, had swiftly rung 
Through all the world, till nations hung 
Upon the music of his tongue. 
Or on his harp's impassioned strain. 
Bewildered and enrapt; yet one. 
Had Treason dared its horrid reign 
O'er empires shattered and undone. 
Had seized the helm of State, or sword. 
And scattered far Dissension's horde. 
Or fiercely hurled Invasion back; 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 153 

A strange, wild one who did not lack 

The gentler weaknesses that win 

The humbler myriads to sin 

And luxury and sloth, but who 

Around his soul such cordons drew 

Of stern resolves, that Beauty's bloom 

Was baffled by his sullen gloom ; 

That Pleasure spread for him in vain 

Her Circean toils, and wanton Ease 

Was powerless to forge a chain 

So coyly screened he could not seize 

With ready hand and rend in twain. 

Such w^as the chief ere yet his name 

Was b^azoned on the scroll of Fame. 

In yonder fane he proudly dw^elt 
In later years, with hosts at will; 
Wars came; red Slaughter raged until 
He spoke, then all the world was still. 
Countless kings before him knelt. 
And utmost lands his power felt. 

Great good he wrought in his fierce way. 
His faults were those of mortal clay. 
With glory crowned, with many stains, 
His name will live while earth remains. 



ADIOS, BOHEMIA 

O'er mountains blue, o'er desert sands, 
'Neath burning suns of tropic sky; 
In gorgeouo vales of summer lands. 
Where'er, henceforth, my path may lie — 
In fortress rude, cathedral old, 
Or ruins hour, with ages gray; 
In truce or strife with rovers bold 
Who toss the'r lives like chaff away; 
On granite peak or ocean shore; 
In peace or \^ar, in wild foray; 
In lawless ease when strife is o'er. 
In pensive hours at close of day: 
If gay with hope or sad and lorn. 
At solemn feait or revel wild; 
']\lid matchless scenes at glowing morn 
Where endless summer long hath smiled; 
'Neath midnight stars, where'er I stray 
In reckless chase of gold or fame, 
Fond memories will haunt my way. 
And e'en the winds of dying day 
Breathe on lie a.r Bohemia's name. 



[54 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

k()sp:ckaxs at corinth 

[Written before the General's death.! 

Invincible in arms, with laurel crowned. 

He heard the wooded hills, the vales, resound 

With cheers of soldiers on their battle ground, 

In warlike honor of his dauntless deeds. 

This is the noblest of a hero's meeds. 

When some resolved, some stately chieftain leads. 

What column hesitates or craven flies? 

Torn ranks reformed beneath his fearless eyes, 

To brave the foe at his imperious will. 

Bold as a lion, as a serpent wise. 

Applauding armies owned his martial skill. 

No famous feudal knight e'er shivered lance 

With bolder mien than this high chief of ours 

INloved o'er the field to meet Rebellion's powers — 

Undaunted, lion-hearted Rosecrans! 

October skies wore autumn's rosy glow. 

Twice westward wheeled a golden sun, alas! 

O'er bloody pomps, o'er War's red scenes of woe. 

Where now the dreadful pageants of the foe? 

His driven host — a wild, commingled mass. 

With Ruin urging on disastrous flight — 

In terror streamed through gloomy shades of night. 

Upon his trail avenging armies pressed. 

And H^atchie's wave was tinged with martial blood. 

Through autumn vale, through flamy-tinted wood. 

Went pouring on the flower of the West. 

Though slain were dense on Corinth's bloody field, 

Our banners there in haughty challenge waved. 

As Hope in stately majesty revealed 

Our native land in peaceful splendor saved. 

Our leader then was in his regal prime. 
I see him now as in that stormy past — 
A dauntless chief; a lofty spirit cast 
In manly, sinewy frame of steel. 
Resistance but awoke his keener zeal; 
His courage on a scene of strife sublime — 
Serene he waited for his chosen time 
To launch a storm, to deal a final blow. 
All men who warred with him his valor know. 
His eye was like an eagle's in its gaze; 
His army crowned him with triumphal bays. 
To-day he bows beneath a weight of years. 
Thin locks of gray entwine his honored brow. 
Age calms his high, intrepid spirit now; 
A vision of repose to him appears. 
His faithful soldiers, too, are growing old — 
Ah I time to them his martial fame endears. 
They look far doAvn the misty aisles of years, 
/ And hail him still as Rosecrans the Bold! 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

THP: AMERICAN EMPIRE 

The Empire impends — 

The years are weighed down 

With the burden of its coming. 

Its throne will be 

As the throne of the world. 

The snows of the Poles 

Will whiten its limits, 

Uttermost seas prohibit its growth. 

There will arise in this land 

A dominant race. 

Triumphant in war. 

With a genius to rule. 



SPAIN 

[189S.1 

If she but dares one faitliless measure more, 
A day of dark, disastrous doom is near. 
'Twill end her power on this western shore — 
We'll drive her banners from this hemisphere. 



HIE SWEET SOUTH 

These isles allure that keep Fonseca's fame. 
The purple sea, the tender breath of gales. 
The glow that bids a myriad flowers bloom: 
The plumy birds that sing so passing sweet. 
Allay my fretful spirit like a spell. 
Here in the bosom of the gentle South 
Shall passions of old sorrows be forgot. 

O you who love the breath of summer sliores. 

Who weary of the clamor of tlie world, 

These are the palmy scenes for which you pine. 

The sternest ordeal here is idleness, 

The utmost virtue known is indolence; 

In lotus vales, voluptuous repose! 

Rove in these flow'ry haunts of fruited gold. 

And revel in sweet heritage of ease. 

What matter if some olden strife shall cease? 

Content you in these leafy scenes to dwell. 



156 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

BURIAL OF DE SOTO 

However well a battle hath been waged, 
To him who falls, Derision bawls: 
"Away! Go off and hide thyself. 
We want no more of you." 
A clown, by simple chance and ready gold 
Attains preeminence; unknown, a fighter dies. 
How oft, in mad Contention's mix, may this befall. 
To one, therefore, I would refer, 
Who failed, who died, but did not wholly fail, 
But fought his fray to final end, 
And left his corse on Glory's palmy field. 

Our leader's dead! He leaves us in dismay 
In this vast wilderness, with foes around. 
How gloomy, dismal, are the lonesome woods; 
How hostile, boundless — filled with cruel foes. 
The swamps appall, where hot effluvias breed. 
The land is all alive with tawny foes 
That move like demon shadows on our trail, 
To plague each fallen soldier as he dies; 
Pale Famine soars on silent wing around. 
No cities have we spoiled of treasure huge. 
This march has been a fearful, idle quest. 
For only savage races meet us here, 
Who have no spoil a knight would deign to seize. 
This rude, wild region has no gift for us 
But graves, and far, far from us the Sea — 
So far, we ne'er shall find its breezy shore, 
That some white sail of Spain might haply come 
To bear us to sweet homes we ne'er shall view. 
And he who brought us here, alas! is dead. 
He leaves us but a gloomy choice of death. 

So be it then. His form be clad in mail. 
Ay, lay our leader out in Spanish mail, 
Without a blemish on his costly steel; 
With plume disposed upon his knightly helm. 
Upon his loins belt his unsullied sword — 
So high of soul he was to fare so ill. 
Drape o'er his corse the colors of Castile, 
For he hath boldly borne our banner far. 
With noble guard of honor placed around. 
In solemn state his body shall repose. 
While mournfully pale soldiers gaze thereon. 
Lo! See you that hoarse cannon peal, 
That surly Nature may deplore his doom. 
And echo grief, across the river's wave. 
All through the day the chevalier shall lie 
Beneath a canopy of cypress boughs. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA i; 

As though reclined in some cathedral nave. 
When sunset reddens o'er this dreary land, 
Recount his warfares rude, illustrious — 
On Aztec shores, in far away Peru. 
'Twas there he won his early meed of fame, 
Though Fate betrayed him on this venture wild. 
Have speech of him in worthy strain, high flown. 
For he hath been Castilian soldier true, 
But of the world reaped not his merits all. 

When twilight shadows come, in funeral barge 
All cushioned o'er with flowers, with forest leaves- 
Rich lined with royal banners trimmed with gold. 
We'll place at rest our noble cavalier. 
And he shall seem asleep in glory there. 
With blaze of torch, with heavy boom of guns. 
And with a mournful blare of trumpets loud. 
Our fleet of boats shall slowly voyage out. 
And this great stream which brave De Soto found 
Shall be his grave! Whole centuries will pass. 
And yet all men will some time speak of him. 
The stream forever will bear on his name. 
Pay honors now above De Soto's corse. 
That Spain some day may learn his knightly doom. 



WOMAN IX PIBLK^ LIFP] 

Frantic, foolish, wild with vain demands. 
She shakes her puny fist at frighted lands. 
Behind her petticoat the preacher stands. 



DANIEL WP]B8TER 

[Written in 1890.] 

No monument above his grave is reared. 
A simple tablet bears his name renowned. 
Shall dull oblivion for him be feared? 
A marble fane, with shining turrets crowned, 
Would fail to glorify this hallowed ground, 
Or have his memory be more revered. 
He spoke to us from out the Nation's past. 
When ruin shadowed hill and vale and glen. 
His lofty words awoke us like a trumpet blast; 
They filled vast armies with impassioned men. 
So Grandeur stalks his church-yard by? 
Such men as Daniel Webster never die. 



158 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

CENTRAL a:mp:rica 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 

The fruits are clad in golden hue, 

Romance is on the sportive wind; 

The verdured vales, the skies of blue, 

Bewitch the soul — enchant the mind. 

What annals of a storied past 

O'er all these lands a glamour cast. 

What names, adventures, feats of arms, 

High deeds of brave, intrepid worth 

Traditions olden summon forth. 

Arrayed in gay, romanceful charms. 

On these fair shores of summer seas; 

Dim tales of explorations bold 

For buried cities, pearls and gold; 

For seizure of rich argosies; 

Of warfare for imperial sway, 

Of crimes, of cruelties untold. 

They float upon each ocean breeze, 

Pervade each isle, each sunlit bay. 

Some ruin meets an idle glance 

To mark a corsair's bold advance; 

There gold was found, or wealth was hid 

By some rapacious ocean Cid — 

Rude king of crime's audacious band; 

The charm, the spirit of this land 

Is old and wonderful romance. 

Here flows the sea Balboa found. 

No monolith or famous ground, 

Or crest aglow with sacred flame. 

Conveys to us his deeds and fame. 

No land or stream is named for him, 

Of Spanish chiefs the peerless one. 

His ocean shines till shores are gone. 

Behind its golden western walls 

The glorious Sun-god nightly falls, 

In pilgrimage to zones of dawn — 

Mysterious deep men pondered on. 

When rose Atlanta's vesper hymn! 

It laves shore line of bright Cathay, 

Of Australasia far away — 

And where the Polar stars are dim. 

Its ice-fields roll and surges play. 

But earth and isles and foamy sea 

Form one vast wreath, O knight, for thee. 

While southern stars the scene surveyed, 

Fame waved aloft her dazzling blade, 

And gave to thee thine accolade. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



ONE LAND 

The American Flag will be unfurled 
From where the Polar snows gleam in the sun. 
To where the Tropic of Cancer spans the world. 
By peaceful arts all regions will be won. 



A FRONTIER SABBATH 

All night long, in the moonlight. 

Was heard the sweet notes of the pistol — 

And the pleasant shriek of the victim. 

— Lieutenant Derby 

How sweetly dawned the gentle Sabbath day. 

Festivities began with William Blake, 

A rustler on the road of some renown. 

To test a weapon of imported brand, 

He bagged a Mexican — Moreno called. 

For sport a coroner was found. Thereupon 

A due and proper inquest scene ensued. 

This was the verdict written out and signed: 

'We, the jury, do declare that quite a stiff 
Arizona zephyr blew, which, as the corpse 
Was walking on the square, concentrated on his back, 
And bored a hole clear through him, and he died." 

These merriments led up to drinks. 

And everybody soon was feeling fine; 

Then bull-fights emptied out the social halls. 

They drew a mob of every race and hue. 

One fearless matador threw up a scarf 

Of crimson tint, to dodge a bovine's charge. 

But slipped and fell. The bull was quick. 

And put two hoofs upon the fighter's back. 

And pinned him to the sand. 

Then taurus turned his mighty head. 

And ran a horn down through his helpless foe. 

'Twas slow withdrawn, besmeared with gore. 

Then down the other horn was swiftly sent. 

Delighted howls and yells went round the ring. 

And brought the pleasing contest to a close. 

Some noted Yuma ladies blew in town, 
WhicTi caused a public ball to be decreed. 
The fun began at ev'ning's pensive hour. 
And all the outlaws of repute were there. 
Free mescal flowed and music tore the air. 
An incident involved a moment's pause; 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Two gentlemen desired a lady's hand in dance, 

And in the brief discussion that ensued, 

One gentleman was killed. They rolled his body 

Underneath the music stand. On went the dance, 

And joy was unconfined until the Yuma belles 

Made curt remarks about their darker sisters there. 

In hope to quell an idle storm, Bill Blake 

Cried out: "All hands take pardners for a waltz." 

The haughty Aztec ladies made demur — 

They said they much preferred a chaste quadrille. 

Thereon the Yuma ladies chose a waltz, 

And low but dire a slight dissension grew. 

Anon each caballero deemed it wise 

To back his lady's wish with modest word. 

Bill Blake at last pulled out his trusty gun, 

And swore that he was chief, and that a waltz 

Was duly jotted down on his program. 

A shot was heard and William fell. 

With sundry faults. Bill had his friends; 

Nobody knew how many men he'd killed; 

He'd held his own in every sort of brawl. 

But now, at last, he'd got a dose himself. 

The other man was not so much to blame. 

But still it seemed a sort of row 

Was something that was due to manly worth. 

And so they pulled their guns and ambled in. 

Lead flew! Every gent and lady there 

His or her revolver drew^ and pumped away 

For precious life. Five men were killed and some 

Wer^ gathered up and carried home. 

Three ladies also underwent repairs. 

The careless comment of the rustlers was 

That a more soulful Sabbath never passed 

In any lively town on that frontier. 



GUATEMOZIN'S DEATH PLAINT 

Hail! gentle Death, that gives release 
From every ill, gives final peace; 
Dispels each woe, and builds a stair 
Whose shining steps and rails of gold 
With brilliance pierce the cloudy fold 
Of mundane skies, and stretch afar 
To where rest, dreams and visions are. 
My nation's foemen I defy. 
And on a bed of roses lie. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 161 



ARIANA 

I cannot give thee treasures rare — 
Gems that shine where Ganges flows, 
But, love, I place a regal rose 
Amid thy wealth of raven hair, 
And on thy rose-red lips I press 
A true-love kiss for none but thee. 
Many a maid has heart distress, 
Disdains her gems brought o'er the sea. 
Nor in pure gold perceives delight, 
Because (her gold — her gems despite) 
No lover bows to her the knee. 
Many a proud, unhappy dame 
Would lavish all her envied gold 
For eyes like thine; for cheeks aflame, 
And form like thine of peerless mould; 
Would barter wealth, rich diadem. 
Her palace home, resplendent gem, 
And rubies rich as golden wine, 
For that lone rose and hair like thine. 
O youthful beauties far outshine 
The treasures of Golconda's mine. 



BOHEMIA'S FOE 

I mourn a spoiler that invades 
Bohemia's fields of roses white. 
Around its path perfection fades 
As smitten by Contagion's blight. 
Ah! Poesy, thy children dread 
The venom of one lurking foe. 
In rage it lifts its loathsome head. 
Its deadly eyes with hatred glow. 
'Tis Penury, with clammy coils 
Cold as the hand of brutal Death. 
High-soaring aims it swiftly foils, 
They vanish at its deadly breath, 
At sight of it Ambition flies. 
And Genius 'neath its torture dies. 

Poverty, I hate thy name, 
Thy semblance or remotest frown; 
Like some young poet born for fame. 
Yet weary waiting for his crown, 

1 shrink at rustling of thy folds, 
And shun the standard Glory holds. 
Ofttimes my heart grows strangely weak. 
Yet swells the impulse flercely strong; 
Some day my silent lips will speak. 

My soul burst forth in floods of song. 



162 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



DRAGON CANOX 

It's a troublous world, 
They say in the song, 
So lend us a hand — 
It's not any wrong — 
It's the golden rule 
Of the Sunday school 
To help folks on. 

He's all played out, 
He's going it strong — 
Tarantula juice! 
He won't last long. 
He'll strike bed rock 
Where he don't belong. 
So give him a shove, 
And boost him strong. 
O help him, boys. 
With generous will. 
He's going down hill. 
Give him a shove — 
Bowl him along. 

His mule is dead. 
His credit is gone. 
His grub used up, 
His claim jumped on. 
O help him, boys; 
It's only a rule 
Of the Sunday School, 
Without much noise 
To help folks on. 

When he thumped a bar 
All hands took a drink. 
When you needed a coin 
You got it, I think. 
He did some good 
When able and strong. 
But now he's played 
As an old time song. 
O, jump on him bad; 
Yes, tramp him strofig. 
He's a regular cad 
Who's all gone wrong. 
Give him a lift. 
Bowl him along. 
It's never wrong 
To help folks on. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 163 

I'll stake him with dust — 
None of you shout. 
I'll rustle the grub 
To send the man out. 
He'll find a good mine, 
Without any doubt, 
And when he comes back 
With cash on his thong, 
There's not any lout 
Will sing him a song. 
While 1 am around. 
And bowl him along. 

It's only a case 

We quite often see. 

I'm hot round the collar^ 

You hear me! 



COLUMN VENDOME 

[Written in Paris in 1871, after viewing what was left of 
Napoleon's column — torn down by the Communists.] 

Insane with hate of tyranny and crown. 

The fools have torn the soldier's trophy down. 

'Twas built ^of cannon captured in his wars, 

When forth he moved to break the bolts and bars 

Of Europe's dungeons, foul with feudal rust. 

And strew her petty despots in the dust. 

He paved the way for freedom yet to be — 

Almost he set the captive nations free — 

And then alas he paused, renounced his lofty fate, 

And stooped to baubles of imperial state. 

These gilded toys to him brought no repose. 

Yet lands are freer for his giant blows; 

The peasant now his ancient master braves, 

The despot cowes before hereditary slaves; 

The robber knight relies no more on castle walls. 

But pleads his cause in parliamentary halls. 

Great as Napoleon was, and great his early plan. 

He was no more than what he was — a mortal man. 

Since History began her stately part. 

And wizard lore of war had olden birth, 

A greater master of Destruction's art, 

A greater soldier — ne'er bestrode the earth. 

He wielded mighty force with peerless mind. 

Not Alexander, Charlemagne, combined — 

Not Caesar, Cyrus, Hannibal, compare 

With France's wonder and the People's king. 

And with his fame, which burdens Europe's air. 

The utmost mortal centuries will ring. 



SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



CA.MP AT LAKE PROVIUP:XCE 

In fitful sounds War's clamor comes. 
Afar I hear the roll of drums, 
The trumpet peals in martial pride. 
Anon the strains of war subside, 
And then a moan of Carib seas. 
Low-voiced is borne on balmy breeze. 
What though upon the sunlit shores 
The brazen guns aligned appear? 
Ko gleam of weapon startles here, 
No scene reminds of martial bays. 
But happy Earth the Sun adores, 
That o'er the world in splendor pours — 
In lavish pomp — his golden rays. 
Ah! deem not Peace prepares to reign, 
That strife is past, its tumults o'er. 
The camps are dense on yonder plain, 
They whiten all the sylvan shore. 
And ere yon pallid moon shall wane, 
"War's trump will sound, his cannon roar. 



DAKOTA SNOWS 

December skies 'frown o'er a zone of snow — 
A Polar waste appalls a weary gaze. 
Fair streams, unseen, in icy fetters flow; 
Bleak desolation wide the eye surveys. 
The sun has fled; the earth, alas! is cold. 
Hoar Winter has all regions in his fold, 
A world is in its pallid cerements rolled. 

Though gloomy Russian plains as cold as these, 
Napoleon's fated army forced its way. 
With Cossack, Famine, wintry gales, disease. 
All hounding on its awful trail for prey. 
What hecatombs fell on that fearful march. 
When human hate with Nature's rage combined. 
No happy view was 'neath all heaven's arch — 
Despair led on and Ruin trailed behind. 
Alas! Napoleon then, with mournful mind, 
IMust well have mused o'er Genius desolate. 
And owned how vain a thing is mortal man. 
When helpless 'neath capricious Fortune's ban. 
When goaded by the ruthless hand of Fate. 
And yet that black disaster proved him great. 
What though Dakota scenes are gloomy, dread, 
When snowy winter holds his. cruel reign? 
Its autumn moon shines o'er an empire plain 
That groans with massy weight of golden grain, 
Nor do its manly sons disdain or fear 
This ruder season of their changing year. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 165 

CAMP OX THP] COLDWATER 

[1862.1 

The north wind o'er each fallen brother grieves, 
And strews his lonely grave with forest leaves. 



•RACE SUICIDE"' 



Better a single child, nourished and trained. 
Than myriads born to misery and vice. 



CAESAR 



A thousand cities carried by assault, 

A million valiant foes in battle slain, 

A million captives sold to servitude — 

All this, and more, that he might briefly reign. 



XAPOLEOX THE (IRE AT 

On his desolate isle far grander he seemed. 
Than when in the passion of battle he dreamed 
Of Europe repulsed and his throne redeemed. 
Though a world in arms dishonored his crown. 
Shall the slanders of foes dim his giant renown? 
His martial adieus o'er an empire's grave 
Will long resound in the hearts of the brave. 



TA^^IAR 

This plaintive note was from a Mormon maid. 
Who dwelt far south in LTtah's granite hills. 
As pure as waters of her mountain rills 
Her spirit was; dense hair of raven shade 
Upon her brows in heavy tresses laid; 
The roses's bloom was on her cheek. 
Ah! how her lustrous, brilliant eyes could speak. 
Her form was of a full, magnific mould. 
For she was mountaineer and rider bold. 
Smile not at penmanship and language poor. 
For college arts ne'er found her lowly door. 
She was a rose — a star in bright relief; 
'Respectably yours," she signs her message brief. 
Ah, me! perhaps she pines as fifteenth wife 
Of some old bishop of unpleasant ways. 
I'll breathe a sigh above her wasted life. 
Then cast her faded letter in the blaze. 



166 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE DISMAL RULE 

When you see a man who is making money fast, 

Always offer him a friencjly helping hand, 

When you meet a chap whose golden days are past, 

With melancholy tales of fortunes overcast, 

Reveal an idle sorrow, so he can understand. 

And have him spread his pinions for the bitter land. 



THE (JRIEE OF DE LEOX 

For vanished youth, knights, I mourn. 

A summer cloud, an idle cross, 

A fancied grief, might well be borne. 

But not, alas! this mighty loss. 

My life hath seen its summer prime, 

My beard is hoar with frosts of time. 

My flowing hair is silver white 

As driven snows of Iceland's clime. 

O precious years, forever flown, 

What argosies of deep delight 

By mellow gales were softly blown 

O'er thy still seas in starry night. 

O years that fled in sweet disdain, 

Your memories — an Aidenn bright — 

Oppress me with delicious pain. 

Then Fortune blessed — Pleasure smiled; 

Around me were illusions wild. 

Mad fantasies; all gorgeous dreams 

Of sanguine hope and regal pride 

Arose like bubbles on the tide 

Of shining, tranquil inland streams 

That on to sullen oceans glide. 

Then strains burst forth from rosy lips 

That win no more wild rapture's praise. 

And orbs now cold in Death's eclipse 

Magnetic flashed with passion's blaze. 

Too soon, alas! life's glories went. 

Now looms the end — an ocean black. 

What frenzied cry, what wild lament. 

What charm, O years, can call you back? 



A COMMENTARY 



Caesar and Sertorius pardoned all — 

Their own blood drenched them at their fall; 

Fierce Marius and Sylla slew their foes, 
And died 'mid scenes of calm repose. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 167 

VOYAGE OF MAGP]LLAX 

Adieu, O knights, to scenes of ease — 

For Coromandel bear away. 

O trim our sails for stormy seas. 

And look to see the lightnings play. 

And list for breakers through the night. 

And lashings of the billows green 

On sands and rocks and shoals unseen. 

And roar of surges fiercely white. 

For isles of Indus gaze at morn. 

Far looming in portentous might. 

And hurling back blue floods in scorn. 

On Orient seas of ills beware, 

Rlark where the tides flow- rude or fair. 

Where danger threats our ocean path. 

Where tidals roar in foamy wrath. 

Our course around the world we dare. 

No more of idle revelries. 

Of thoughts of dames and pleasant ease — 

O sail, this voyage out with care; 

For stormy scenes, for ills prepare. 

And we will cross Zipangi seas. 



XATIOXAL HYMN 

My country, 'tis of thee. 
Land of monopoly, 

Of thee I mourn. 
Land where rich folks reside. 
Land of the nabob's pride. 
From every mountain side 

Loud wails are borne. 



THE INIIXXESOTA MASSACRE 

[Outbreak of the Sioux in 1862.] 
The Sioux were forth like fiends from Hell. 
The plains re-echoed with their yell 
Of savage hate, and homes ablaze. 
And shrieks that on the midnight fell. 
Told where they rode their bloody ways. 
Upon the doomed frontier they swarmed — 
Sleuth-hounds of death, vile dogs of war, 
Nor infancy nor age could bar 
Their brutal wrath. Half-naked, armed, 
Vermilion-daubed, ferocious, wild. 
Their scalp-locks trailing to the wind, 
Fell demons on their onset smiled. 
And smoke and wreck were strewn behind. 



168 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



AX ADDITIONAL PLP^ASURP^ 

"I always like to play with fellows that are poor," 
A Denver gambler said, as we exchanged our views. 

"Why so? I never heard a man say that before, 
You ought, of course, such adversaries to refuse." 

"You see," he smiled, "it hurts a poor man so to lose." 



THE OLD PAPER :\nLL 

Sing, poet, sing — sing your fill; 
Print your trash and "shoot to kill." 
But when you have your crazy will, 
Your stuff will go a dismal route. 
And reach a port not thought about — 
The "Dead Book" place — the paper mill. 



SAX EPAXCTSCO SAXD LOTS 

[1878.1 
Buckle on your rifies. — Denis Kearney. 
Buckle on your rifles, boys — 
O saddle your cannons all; 
Gallop your canteens through the streets. 
When you hear the Hoodoo call. 

F'ill your bayonets full of shot, 
And keep your blankets dry, 
And pepper away with pickled pork 
When hell-bound thieves are nigh. 

I'd have you fry your tent stakes rare, 
And carefully boil the succulent shell; 
Of grape-shot juice drink deep, my~boys; 
Your stirrups load to the muzzle well. 

O, paint the city red, my boys; 
Your manly forms with booze embalm. 
Wear out your throats with awful yells. 
Then all creep home like Bopeep's lamb. 



HEROES 



Balboa climbing the lofty Isthmian peak, 
Paul Jones upon his captured foeman's bloody deck; 
Mad Anthony Wayne, commanding his charging lines; 
Forget them not! Within their veins coursed noble blood. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

WAR IX LOUISIANA 

Shrill the fife in yonder camp. 
The clarions blare and soldiers clieer. 
I hear the column's heavy tramp; 
'Neath wildwood boughs the tents appear 
Gay banners wave and weapons shine 
Along each blue battalion's line, 
And like a rumbling thunder's roar, 
From Vicksburg's far embattled heiglit 
I hear the rebel cannons pour 
Defiance of the nation's might. 
Across the tide, the wood, the plain. 
Far swells their peal of stern disdain. 
The bayous fringed with native wood, 
Catch echoes from the river's flood. 
Where navies iii their pride contend. 
And rude notes of the battle blend. 
War's clamors roll, but Nature smiles 
At fierce Destruction's efforts drear; 
Where swift the march of Strife defiles. 
Where Treason rears its fortress piles. 
Red roses bloom, gay buds appear. 
When all this wrathful storm is past, 
And these heroic toils are done, 
The plains will glow with joy at last. 
Green ivy trail the ramparts won. 
And roses wreathe each idle gun. 
So scenes of horror pass away. 
As Peace prevails o'er sullen Force. 
Green earth will robe in tresses gay — 
Conceal the trace of Ruin's course. 



MAX WITH A JAAV 

How dear to his heart is the noise his voice makes. 
When his throat is in order and his utterance clear; 
Like a volcanic shock the whole house he shakes. 
He thunders and roars like a Mexican steer. 
His opinions he bellows without any fear; 
Ay, preaches his rot with fury and zeal. 
Till far through the hostelrie his sentiments peal. 
When he raises his voice to the uttermost pitch. 
The traveling man murmurs: "The son-of-a-Witch!" 
And Bedlam itself is apparently near. 

O, the Texico bloke. 

The Trinidad bloke. 

The Santa Fe bloke— 
They poison and pester the Cow frontier. 



170 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



AN OLD TRUNK 

Graveyard of the past! with here and there 

A photo, keepsake, tress of hair. 

Whose was it? I've forgotten, I declare. 

What stacks of letters! Cremate these remains 

Of Youthful ecstasies and pains— 

These relics of romantic days. 

Consign them to the kitchen blaze. 

What fools young people are. 



ALMEIDA SAILINC; FOK INDIA 

In glow cf Lusitania's moon 

He revels in wild visions fair — 

This dreamer with dense golden hair. 

Sweet ocean isles with bays are strewn, 

Afar the foe in terror flies, 

And ere the blaze of Triumph's noon. 

The minarets of Ind arise 

In balmy hush of starry skies. 

Imperial pomps his heart console 

As oriental domes unroll 

O'er aisles ablaze with royal state. 

Voluptuous paths his pleasure wait 

As grand, wild music falls or swells 

Upon the air faint with perfume. 

The fountains of a thousand wells 

Of lawless bliss his lips may drain. 

All sensuous joys his hours illume. 

In scenes unmarred by mortal pain. 

Is this thy dream in youthful bloom, 

O free lance pale with martial care? 

O Fate conceal his rueful doom. 

Where somber shores no splendors wear. 

On ocean isle, his lonely tomb. 

His frays await on fields obscure. 

In strife remote, with foemen vile. 

In vain the wiles of Fame allure. 

The savage o'er his corse will smile, 

And wear his arms of honor pure. 

Not aisles of glory, lofty fate, 

Or winsome scenes of pleasure fair, 

But ruin, sorrow, death await, 

O free lance pale with martial care. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

THP: SOLDIER'S CKPlEl) 

One day at a time 

Is enough for a soldier. 

If all right to-day 

No thought of the morrow, 

Or days that are gone. 

To-day is the one great day. 

Rest by the fire — 

There's a watch on the line. 



PHILOSOPHY OF SIXALOA 

The path of Spanish glory is not paved 

With gold, with crowns of laurel ev'rywhere. 

The dust of Colon is in foreign grave, 

De Soto's dead and half his army slain; 

Cortez, in loneliness, his age consumes; 

Nunez Balboa, of such lofty fame. 

Poured out his blood at low Davila's will; 

Almagro dies by great Pizarro's hand, 

A son avenges — fierce Pizarro falls; 

A royal order slays the knightly son; 

Narvaez and his cavaliers are gone; 

De Ayllon's knights in fair Chicora bled; 

By wound of arrow, in some gory fray 

In Land of Promise, has De Leon died. 

As brave Cordova tell in Yucatan. 

I deeply sorrow for the sons of Spain, 

Whose crimes, misfortunes and o'er tragic lives 

Do make a desert of this western world. 

An utmost wisdom learn — knights 'tis this: 

Not fierce ambition, lust of gold. 

Or unavailing murmurs o'er defeat — 

Assumed indifference to pain or loss, 

But calm and lofty manliness to bear. 

Endure the trials of life's brief career. 

As Grecian soldiers came on battle plains. 

With silent lips — with firm, defiant hearts. 



HOBO'S DELIGHT 

'Where fly you in haste, with a joyous air?" 
'To the city and land of Everywhere. 
.And you, whither bound, my careless jade?" 
'To Anywhere Land my course is laid." 



172 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

MIPvABEAU 

"Bring flowers, that I may take my eternal rest. 

He stood between a threatened king 
And millions mad with deadly rage 
O'er tyrannies grown hoar with age — 
Dread clamors made all Europe ring. 
With freedom for its corner stone 
He sought to save a. feudal throne. 
He stood supreme — heroic soul! 
But treachery around him stole; 
Ingratitude's keen shafts of steel 
Gave wounds 'twere idle to conceal. 
The base arose by arts of shame, 
To mar his war for public weal. 
He fell, as falls a giant oak, 
Nor strange — his lion heart was broke. 
Sleep, Mirabeau! secure thy fame. 



AX OKLAHOMA CORKSCREW 

Of many crimes 'tis now accused— 
This idle thing, once greatly used 
In handling viands much abused. 
It lies contemptuously refused. 

With foolish loyalty infused 

Men, by other men, are often used, 

Much to their loss — their detriment beside. 

They then are coldly cast aside. 

Amid the rush for plunder, place and pelf, 

They find themselves tossed on the shelf. 

Though little else we might expect, 

No looker on is much enthused 

To see a faithful fellow wrecked. 

Pope, the poet, told us long ago: 

'Use ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe; 

Each person for himself, you know," 

Or flowery words to that effect. 

Corkscrew, avaunt! old friend, or foe, 

Out this window now you go. 



"SHE MARRn^:r) a title"' 

Her foreign titles, baubles, coronets are tame 
Beside Moll Pitcher's patriotic fame. 
Moll drove the cannon missile home, when heroes fell 
To brave the lords our shoddy damsels love so well. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 173 

THE SIXGER 

FAME TO GENIUS 

The annals of Ambition teach 

That splendid goals proud spirits reach. 

What if along the solemn beach 

Of Life's broad sea the surges play, 

And toss wild wrecks in savage mirth? 

These wrecks bore but the souls of earth, 

But iron souls can set at bay 

The storm's wild wrath, the ocean's rage. 

And stamp upon their passing age 

The impress of imperial sway. 

Press on, therefore, at last to find, 

Despite defeat and fleeting pain. 

The sceptre of colossal reign — 

Triumphal bays of peerless mind. 

No spoil is won by cravens meek, * 

But victors war with purpose strong; 

They strike and crush, through right or wrong, 

A path to all high goals they seek. 

Arise with pride of Asian kings 

And face the world's derisive gaze; 

Undaunted snatch thy regal bays 

And wear them in the noon-tide blaze 

As from the heaven-s handed down; 

All earth contains no grander crown; 

The brightest of terrestrial things 

Will pale before its gorgeous rays 

As stars before the Sun go down. 

I launch a curse upon thy path. 

May every joy thy being hath 

Be turned to gall; may serpents spring 

Along thy way to smite and sting; 

False friends betray, and Treason glide 

In guise of kindness at thy side; 

Abhorrent ways await thy tread, 

And thunderbolts burst o'er thy head; 

The tempest war thee in its wrath. 

And lightnings burn along thy path. 

Let Hope desert, and hate and greed 

Despoil thee of each worthy meed. 

Be thine all woes all men have borne 

Since first our planet wheeled in air; 

Face misery in sullen scorn. 

Deep disappointment and despair; 

Disasters come, misfortunes reign; 

Thine inner fires, smould'ring there. 

Afflict thee with incessant pain. 

Then shalt thou sing some nobler strain. 

Know thou 'tis indigence and shame 



174 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Give burning passion for a name, 
And sorrow of a vast account 
That bids ttie bard's high spirit mount 
To realms beyond this mortal sphere. 
His path is hemmed with woe severe — 
Who to his lofty crown aspires 
Must blight his life for sacred fires. 

A REPLY 

Who conquers fame in this rude style 
Will be a knight of lofty zeal, 
Or rue his gifts, and only smile 
At siren Glory's mute appeal. 
The singer of ambitious mind. 
Impulses bold and tastes refined. 
Should, like Pindarus, be the guest 
Of cities, isles and kingdoms blest. 
High pomp should gild his hours of ease, 
And arts and charms his senses please; 
Grand music his great songs inspire. 
Proud Beauty wake his lyric fire. 
Not his to stoop to venal toil. 
To mingle with the world's mad throng; 
To lavish zeal on low turmoil. 
Or suffer deep and grievous wrong. 
Or squander years in useless pain — 
Those golden years ne'er come again. 
Who bold aspires to high renown 
Wears not resigned a martyr's crown. 
While yet the scornful heavens frown — 
Remote his coronation day — 
His restless soul he chafes away. 



A FEMININE QUERY 

You ask, fair friend, that love be truthfully defined. 
'Tis passion, sentiment and selfishness combined; 
With ownership, and bondage too, not far behind. 
For greedy men, 'tis pastime after busy days. 
With damosels — a solemn choice, a temporary craze. 



THE TALK FIEND 

"That quiet man — is he about?" 
"That quiet man is up the spout — 

In Beulah Land, without a doubt. 

The Talk Fiend came and wore him out. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 175 

THE WORLD'S UNREST 

There is no hope for nations — Byron. 

Wild forces rise at Ruin's call, 
And Civilization totters to its fall. 

Don't worry over public ills, my son. 
Our petty toils will soon be done, 
Our crowns on high will soon be won. 
Who'll manage things when we are gone? 
The busy world will still roll on. 



HORSE-AND-HORSE 

'I will lead you on to days of glory," 
Said William the Hun. 
Shake, old son. 

We know the rest of that wild story. 
When manhood's joys had just begun, 
And will and impulse both were free, 
John Barleycorn, the crafty one, 
Sang that pleasant song to me. 



POOR DEVIL 

He was always hurried, 
He stewed and worried; 
To his toil he scurried, 
And now he's buried — 
Over the Styx been ferried. 



REIGN OF THE PEDAGOGUE 

"With watchful waiting on the fence. 

Our indignation grows intense." 
, 'Twas thus he wrote of late events. 

Go put the scribbler in duress, 

And give the villian much distress. 

With mercy shown not in excess. 

We'll make a whip 

Of censorship 

To mure him up in wretchedness. 

'Twill make him dutiful. 

And be so beautiful 

To smash all precedents 

Of freedom of the press. 



176 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

» 

c()UXTp:ss dubaPvPvY 

With feathers fine she made her nest. 
Carlyle calls her a dirty pest 
Fit only for a hangman's guest. 
(He was a grouch, his works attest). 
Her final days were much distressed — 
The poor old girl died like the rest. 
All terrified at such a scene. 
She perished on the guillotine. 



PRIXCE OF INDUS 

A scion of the victor Tamerlane, 
In strife he throve; tall pyramids of skulls 
Told Avhere his enemies had peace at last. 
All rural scenes awoke his joyous praise. 
Flowers were his chief delight, and immense 
The gardens that he caused the slaves to rear. 
Gay, munificent, no lighter heart in camp, 
He led a stately and romantic life. 
And all the glories of the land were his. 
On raids of war he loved a wassail well, 
And oft would camp in some delightful vale, 
To get his gray old, emirs mad with drink. 
He swore full abstinence at forty years. 
That age attained he bade his merry slaves 
Bring forth his costly golden revel bowls. 
With gems adorned, and threw them to the poor. 
Magnificent a firman that he wrote 
To win his vassals from the use of wine. 
When told his chosen son was fatal ill. 
He vowed unto the gods a mighty gift — 
A precious one — the noblest that he knew. 
His courtiers brought the Agra diamond forth, 
A gem renowned in all the eastern world. 
'A nobler, greater gift behold," he cried; 
Then thrice around the dying youth he strode. 
Slow lifting up his hands, he prayed the gods 
To spare the son — accept himself instead. 
The prayer was heard. The dying prince revived. 
Pale grew the father and he swooned away. 
They bore him out among his treasured flowers, 
And in the sunshine of a cloudless day. 
Breathed o'er by breezes of the land he loved, 
In peace the famous paladin expired. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 177 

OVIi SAINTS AND MAIiTYKS IX JAPAX 

The missionaries in Japan build fine houses, and live better 
than high government officials. — Tokio Herald. 

Foxes have holes, birds of the air have nests, but the Son 
of J\lan hath not where to lay his head. — Jesus Christ. 
Fanaticism and its lords • 
These basic principles enjoin — 
^ Cant, hypocrisy, deceit, 

And eager quest of golden coin. 



ho: fou vicksburg 

The call hath come — we must away, 
Farewell this green and flow'ry spot, 

And welcome now the banners gay, 
Anon the rush of rifle shot. 

And let the battle lightnings play — 
Our gleaming lines will falter not. 

Farewell, once more, the quiet camp; 

Farewell ye scenes where roses bloom. 
And welcome now the legion's tramp. 

The flash of arms and wave of plume. 
For ere young Luna lights her lamp 

We'll hear the foeman's cannon boom. 

Farewell ye fields and forests green, 
In vain ye spread your charms for me; 

I would not linger though a queen 
Arrayed her halls of dance in thee; 

My spirit pines for a wilder scene — 
The pageant of red victory. 

The city's walls are proud and high; 

Lo! Death is throned upon her steep. 
But when our thund'ring cannons ply 

We'll rouse her from her giant sleep, 
And if beneath her walls we die. 

May glory shine where we shall sleep. 



:my foebiddex city 

The goddess Memory is there enthroned. 
I enter not. I trouble her no more. 



SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE (;KAVE of BRKtHAM 

This is the grave of Brigham Young — 
Much heard of in the Gentile tongue. 
He sleeps unhonored and unsung. 

A mortal man, he was of clay. 
Unworthy knave, he had his day — 
Did grievous ill and passed away. 

In Utah vales his fame survives. 
He did not live the best of lives. 
He suffered much — from 19 wives. 



JULIAN 



Philosophers, like desperadoes, die 

As quietly as summer days go by. 

Julian — Rome's master, autocrat and King — 

Had noble gifts of mind and gracious ways; 

The bloom of health, and strength of early days; 

A manly beauty that historians praise. 

Riches, power, pomp, and all they bring. 

Fell in profusion round this mighty king. 

How brightly passed his royal prime; 

Not in low pursuits that men debase. 

But Learning charmed his idle time. 

And helped him grace his lofty place. 

War's trumpet blew — then Julian rose 

To lead his host against an empire's foes. 

Disdaining ease and sensual repose, 

The post of duty — Honor's post — he chose. 

No base regrets his brilliant thoughts obscured; 

Villas, pleasure grounds, no more allured; 

He couched at eve on battle plain 

'Mong rudest of his martial slain. 

Sore wounded in disastrous fray. 

He saw his life blood ebbing fast away, 

But spoke farewell to every friend, 

And proudly met his warlike end. 



PATRICK HEXRY 

He hollered out with all his might: 
'Peace! Peace! We are too proud to fight." 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 179 

i)p:spaik of i)p:ayllon 

[From an unfinished drama.] 

I)B AYLLON 

When Fortune signals from on liigh 

With fearless heart cast thou the die. 

Pause not for vain and laggard thought; 

Heroic deeds are swiftly wrought, 

And goals are lost while moments fly. 

Crownless and in sport of men, 

I mourn high deeds that might have been. 

Cortez is prince of Mexico, 

Where once in arms 'twas mine to go. 

An inspiration moved my soul; 

I saw the path, I saw the goal, 

I trembled on Decision's brink. 

I paused, alas! in fear to think; 

To weigh the venture's glory, pain. 

This bolder leader in disdain. 

In frenzy snatched the golden chance. 

Swift as the lightning's dizzy glance. 

He has renown — high fortunes bless 

With gold, with honor and romance. 

My wasted life is nothingness. 

No prize allures, no view enchants; 

Repulsive all my future seems; 

Its flowers fall from deadly blight — 

anguish of a life-time's dreams 
Gone out in gloom, in hopeless night. 

1 brood on all in wretchedness. 
At last I cast illusions by; 

The shores resound with smothered roar; 

My martial hopes, ambitions, die. 

I'll poison years with strife no more, 

But rest me in Tacuban vale, 

Remote from din or sorrow's wail, 

No suppliant of siren Fame, 

Forgetful of misfortunes past. 

^ly sands of life have fallen fast. 

Infatuations old are tame. 

How keen the cruel scorn of foes. 

Chicora's race, with fatal blows, 

Gave me despair, disaster, shame. 

While baser knights of lowly name 

Upon vice-regal thrones repose. 

Ah! be it so, for life's defeat 

Reveals the sum that Wisdom knows — 

All earth contains is but a cheat. 

How swiftly sped ambitious days 

That bore but fruit of utter pain. 



180 SOXC;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

I fierce aspired to martial baj's 

That cannot cool a weary brain. 

I roved o'er Desolation's ways 

In fury for colossal gain. 

The spoils I sought would not repay 

The joyous years I cast away. 

There is no wreath of glory bright 

But hatli adorned some other's brow. 

A fool disdains all pure delight 

In bloody zeal to wear it now. 

There is no prize a sword may reach 

That hath not oft been fleetly won. 

Shall Time in vain essay to teach 

His moral stern? All hath been done. 

The Incas piled their gloomy stone, 

Pursued their dreams of golden lust, 

Pizarro has their mighty throne — 

He strews their shrines in idle dust. 

Prate thou to fools of Glory's breath. 

Of honors in disastrous fray; 

Of daring deeds in face of death 

Where hecatombs are swept away; 

Of all the idle pomp of fame, 

Of laurels dyed in human gore; 

Of grateful empire's high acclaim 

And History's immortal score; 

Of all the horrors knaves invent 

To minister to gain; 

Of all the scourges ever sent 

To thrive on misery and pain. 

I hate them all — the foes of weal, 

The ruthless reapers of the grave; 

Fools only fight while scoundrels steal, 

And sov'reigns spurn their mangled brave. 

The flimsy wreath soon fades away, 

The dauntless lines are soon forgot, 

And Death exults above his prey. 

And haunts alone the bloody spot. 

What empty prize shall now I seek? 

Hath life no more? Ah, do not speak 

To me of love. There is no kind 

That ghastly selfishness can find 

No portal wide to enter in; 

There is no kind unstained by sin, 

Unmantled by a garb of shame, 

) Or worthy of the price or name; 

, For me no more is Glory's call, 

My faithful steel in silence rust; 
I'll hie me to a revel hall 
Till gloomy death shall end it all. 
Espania, to her sons unjust. 
May never know my doom I trust. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

••ABSENT MINDED IJEGGArvS- 

Romantic was our trysting place, 

Where cooling waters ever glide. 

The roses bloomed on every side. 

How green the boughs that hung in place. 

The tender winds, the s,tars above, 

Suggested dangerous moods of love. 

We murmured vows; we often sighed, 

Then one another deified; 

Yet time flew on at such a pace 

That, ere we deemed the night was done — 

One-half our burning thoughts unsaid— the Sun 

Rose red and round above the river wide. 

Our gross imprudence we denied. 



JEAN PAUL JONES 

In my Valhalla stands Jean Paul Jones, 
Who first unfurled our flag on foreign seas, 
And from his cannon spoke in thunder tones 
His bitter hate of tyrannies. 

With shattered ship a dismal wreck, 

He stood impassioned on his bloody deck 

And urged the reckless contest on. 

Swift answer met his clarion call. 

His heroes fought when every hope was gone. 

Then saw the foeman's haughty colors fall. 

The rival bark was his— he leapt thereon; 

And— master, victor, of the warlike scene. 

Encircled by his fighters brave. 

He saw his own proud ship careen, 

And slowly sink in Ocean's azure wave. 

While spell of war this mighty nation owns. 

Full glory give to Jean Paul Jones. 



clemenci^:ai^ transposed 

Ever since the human race began, 

]\Ian has been at ceaseless war with Man. 



THE PHILIPPINES 

•The American flag is here to stay. 
Quoth Dewey in Manila Bay. 



182 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



IX lixp: of battle 

I sit beside a flowing stream 
And Fanc}''s hand is weaving fast 

The fabric of a happy dream 

Too deep with calm delight to last. 

I see no more the camp fires red, 
The ranks impatient for affray, 

The tents o'er hill and lowland spread — 
]\Iy vagrant thoughts are far away. 

I dream of home, of early friends. 

Of wild woods dear in childhood's day; 

And, careless that the strife impends, 
I further launch my thoughts away. 

I dream of every peaceful scene 

Once dear to boyhood's thoughtful eye. 

As near my couch of vernal green 
My burnished arms unheeded lie. 

I mark no more the pomp of war. 

Nor glowing lines of martial steel. 
Nor cannons, old with battle scar. 

That make the foe's battalions reel. 

I dream of haunts where sunny days 
Were never tinged with silent, woe, 

Ere Treason bid our cities blaze, 
Or Freedom hurled us on the foe. 

I dream that strife has ceased to be. 
That Glory's paths no more we tread. 

That fallen States once more are free — 
That fields no more with blood are red. 

I dream that all the gay delights 
Impulsive youth may hope to win. 

Have called us from these gory fights, 
And hemmed their ceaseless horrors in. 

Yet, as beside a flowing stream 
I mark no more the pomp of war. 

But idly dream my happy dream. 
The sullen cannons loar afai-. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 183 



WRITTEN IX A GARRET 

I've often sighed o'er melancholy bards 

Who poured immortal strains from garrets dim. 

wretched sons of song, here's my regards; 
Peruse my lofty Mount Olympus hymn. 

1 soar above the sordid scenes of earth, 
I scoff at :\lammon and his idle snares, 

For where my florid fancies have their birth, 
There is no savor of mundane affairs. 
I'm up aloft, far o'er the madding crowd; 
The dust of vanished ages, with his hoof. 
My winged steed may spurn, without reproof- 
Then thrust his head out o'er an attic roof, 
And bay the world with noble hauteur proud. 

My purposes in early life were high. 
Ambition's voice appeared to me sublime, 
A royal message from an upper sky — 
In youthful frenzy I resolved to climb. 
And here I am, far o'er the human race. 
And elevated to a higher plane. 
No sound of traffic mars this holy place. 
Here undisturbed, the gentle muses reign. 

youth averse to drudging in a shop. 
Aim high — you'll find a room up at the top. 

Though here alone I'm not in solitude. 

A thousand airy beings round me swarm. 

What though my chamber furnishings are rude? 

ITpon that naked floor the gods have stood. 

Bright-winged — yea, beauteous — from Jove's abode; 

And by the power of a potent charm _ 

That moves as noiseless as an echo's chime, 

1 summon here, in congregations vast. 
The mighty heroes of the storied past. 
Bach in the pomp and splendor of his time. 
What millionaire's rich Persian rugs are trod 
By troops of kings, or by a demi-god? 
Would I the converse of such souls resign — 
These conquerors of thousand ancient thrones — 
To puff cigars or sip at foreign wine 

With banker Smith or wholesale merchant Jones? 



No! here's my home — my royal palace fair. 
I'm rich in things that coin will never buy. 
With wide magnificence I fill the air; 
My domes imperial reach to the sky. 
I lose myself in dreams — O wondrous fair — 
That all would vanish were a mortal nigh. 
While heroes, demi-gods, move in my train, 
A human step would that bare floor profane. 



184 SONGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

A .MILLION AIPvE'S KEVEEIE 

[From "The Griefs of Bohemia.'"] 

I am a man whose moods and glowing thoughts 

Find no expression in exalted song, 

Xor touch the chord that thrills a list'ning world, 

Nor soar aloft on restless wings of rhyme. 

With inspirations deep my soul is mute. 

I gaze on California's vivid stars. 

And know their dread and awful language well. 

1 hear the Ocean speak and comprehend. 

All beauties California doth unfold — 

The glories of her soft Hesperian clime 

I view with raptured eye. The mysteries 

That common men essay in vain to solve. 

Are clear to me; so clear, I might unveil 

Them as a dreaded oracle would speak. 

If men resented not deep words of truth. 

The hidden springs that move this world's affairs 

I touch with skill and garner countless gold. 

The Spanish chief who robbed the land Peru, 

Bore off no spoils to overshadow mine. 

The ships upon the stately sea I send; 

Ten thousand cars of precious commerce move 

At my command. Sometimes I madly dream 

The world was only made for men like me. 

I have odylic arts, swift born of thought. 

I can within my palace parlor brood. 

And make a roaring whirlpool of the mart, 

Engulfing fortunes, homes and ruined men. 

And yet, at times, weird thoughts oppress me sore. 

Some beardless boy now carols in the wood, 

Whose humble name will awe the world 

When all my envied gold is scattered far, 

And I am dust, and utterly forgot. 

I have not lived the lofty life 1 crave. 

I have within me true poetic fire. 

The spirit that exults in royal song; 

The glow of thought that casts a glamour o'er 

All mundane things; the instinct, not defined. 

That leads high bards to pour majestic lays 

That charm, delight and mystify mankind. 

But this is all — I have no skill to voice 

The stately, pent up music of my soul. 



ONLY SOME SOLDIEKS 

[186.3.1 

Here let them slumber, side by side. 

Fame knows them not — with high but homely pride 

Each proved himself a man indeed — and died. 

For this, another's name is glorified. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 1S5 

THE DOOMED POET 

Vampire booksellers. — Burns. ^ 

Booksellers' hacks. — Goldsmith. 

Now Barabbas was a publisher. — Byron. 

[Office of the Reputable Publishing Company. Enter :\Ir. 
Grinder, Manager. Mr. Goth at his post.] 

Mr. Grinder: Goth, the Foreign IMissionary Fund — sent 'em 
money? 

Gotli : Usual sum, sir. 

Mr. G.: Holy Rollers? 

Goth: Gone. sir. 

Mr. G.: Empty Churches? 

Goth : Also. 

Mr. G.: Busybodies? 

Goth : Check gone. 

Mr. G.: Charity :\Iongers? 

Goth : Gone, sir. 

Mr. G.: Very well. Let's to business. Whafs been done 
with "Rimes Of A Ruthless Rioter," by Oklahoma Hooter? 
Anything in it? 

Goth: Our electric multiple-typewriting department had 
the fellow's book yesterday. Took its cream, you know. 

Mr. G.: You wrote Hooter, did you, returning his manu- 
script? 

Goth: Nicely, sir. 

Mr. G.: Sent our thanks? 

Goth: As usual. 

Mr. G.: Have a care, Goth. Hell hath no fury like a 
poet scorned. Where's the type-written copy? 

Goth: Gone to Mrs. Vera Famous, with suggestions: author 
unknown to the public, style crude, not up to standard, and 
so forth. Same ideas, subjects, titles, meter, methods, etc., 
from her gifted pen will receive attention. 

Mr. G.: Ah! I fear you blunder, Goth. Riots? She knows 
nothing about riots — never saw one. 

Goth: All thought of, Mr. Grinder. She'll follow him 
closely, not using his language, of course, or judiciously, 
perhaps. 

Mr. G.: Dangerous, Goth. The copyright law. 

Goth : Only a bit of paper, Mr. Grinder. He drinks like a 
fish, has no money — all down and out. 

Mr. G.: Go ahead then. Put the puff -writer at work. 
Make Rome howl. What's in the morning paper? 

Goth : The iNIightybig Oil Company's after us sharp. It's 



186 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

ravenous, voracious — hostile. Our stock's in clanger, Mr. 
Grinder. 

Mr. G.: Hal I tell you, Goth, these predatory people need 
attention. Greed, graft, money madness, bode ill to the coun- 
try. It's a tiger jungle now. Write Dr. Golightly, Professor 
Grab; any of our scribes. We need a book on the subject. 
Don't be timid, Goth. The pure in heart inherit the earth. 
Remember it. I'll be out a few minutes now at the Old Ladies' 
Anti-Population Society. It meets to-day. Au revoir. 
(Exit Mr. Grinder.) 



REVERIE ()E (X)LITMHUS 

Rumors of shores unknown are wide afloat. 

Faint echoes of the past o'er seas prevail. 

To courts of Egypt went, in times remote, 

A Grecian sage, to learn a gruesome tale 

That ready credence won, but much appalled. 

'Twas of a continent — Atlantis called — 

That once did occupy this lonely sea. 

Five empires were, where now these waters be. 

Cities great they had, with populations vast. 

Immortal glory fills that misty past. 

In one black, awful night convulsions tore 

Tlie solid fabric of its ocean shore. 

And liurled Atlantis in a cruel sea. 

When Egypt had this tale of woe sublime, 

Its wise men said the tale was white with time. 

What if the lost Aflantis yet may be 

Above the wave, across this ample sea? 



THE SA(;E OE SISKIYOU 

O dreamy Thoreau! Here's a man 

Where all men were when civil arts began; 

Unversed in law, too proud for homely toil, 

A tree his roof, lord of his native soil. 

Behold this person of the Digger breed — 

Without ambition, impulse, aim or creed; 

A homeless wretch, in destitution quite. 

Repulsive as an ancient anchorite; 

A human buzzard of uneasy wing. 

He has no house or home, no earthly thing 

Except, alas! a fiendish appetite. 

He's now just where his native race began — 

Scarce more than brute, and Thoreau's model man. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 187 

NAUTICAL DISCIPLINE 

A Ballad Of The Deep Blue Sea 

I went to sea on a clipper ship 

That sailed away from an eastern slip. 

They made me mate — I swung the "cat" 

Whenever a sailor gave me chat. 

If the "cat" was weak and his tongue was strong, 

I triced him up with a leather thong. 

Or gave his feelings quite a jar, 

With a handy blow from a capstan bar. 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the jolly tar 

That sailed the ocean wastes afar. 

When I was mate on the stormy sea 
There never was mate that ruled like me; 

never since and never before 
Arose such oaths as then I swore. 
My voice was shrill and fury quick, 
And any sailor I could lick. 

The sailor knew if he struck a blow 

To mutiny court his case would go; 

So he bowed his head and took his whack. 

And never dared to stuike me back. 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the jolly tar 

That sailed as mate of the "Shooting Star." 

When I was mate of another ship 

1 ruled my men with a fearful lip; 
With a fearful lip and a brutal hand. 
And a way that sailors understand. 

I cursed the crew till the air got blue, 
And smote with rope till the claret flew. 
Sing heigh!, Sing ho! and tiriloo 
For the mate that sailed the ocean blue. 

Away we went till Neptune's breeze 
Brought us around to the sunset seas. 
I took my grog and chewed the weed, 
And grew quite swell on tony feed. 
Ah! yes, I had fine times indeed. 
To all on board I showed my heft 
By knocking sailors right and left. 
But earthly pleasures soon are past. 
And such enjoyments do not last. 
Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the jolly tar 
That sailed the ocean wastes afar. 

One sultry night with ugly luck 
A coral reef our vessel struck. 
And very bad luck it proved to me. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

For it fired me off the foamy sea. 

I felt the shock and launched a boat, 

And left the rest to sink or float. 

Two sailors fled along with me — 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the stormy sea. 

The ship rode well and we sneaked back, 

But the Captain's face with rage was black. 

He knocked me down and sprained my neck, 

And booted me off the quarter deck; 

A fearful trounce he gave to me. 

For I saw the moon in apogee. 

And stars enough to fill the sea. 

My nether limbs and horny hands 

He loaded down with iron bands. 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the jolly tar 

That sailed the ocean wastes afar. 

He smashed my nose — which gave me pain — 

And from my waist he hung a chain. 

Not even then he let me go, 

For I saw the stars swing to and fro 

As he tossed me down to a place below. 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! and tiriloo 

For the mate that sailed the ocean blue. 

He locked me up to watch and pray, 
And used me foul by night and day. 
When weeks had passed we came to port. 
And there he had some further sport. 
He rolled me out like a bale of hay. 
And I quit the ship without my pay. 
With spirits low and body sore, 
I needed help to get ashore. 
This help the Captain gave to me 
As he booted me off the foamy sea. 

But the world is wide for men like me. 

And graft is better than trips at sea. 

I loafed around for quite a spell. 

Till my spirits rose and I got well. 

Then I launched with skill a corsair boat 

1 flatter myself will safely float. 

It brings much coin to knaves like me, 

And proves much better than a life at sea. 

O better to stay on a far off shore. 
Better to toll for a Jap or Turk, 
Than sail in fear wide oceans o'er, 
With duties around you cannot shirk, 
And a Captain flerce on folks at work; 
Better to seize on tainted gain, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

Than covet the life of danger and pain 
The seaman has on the stormy main. 

I've a pirate flag and pirate deck. 

And I gather money by the peck. 

A collar of brass is round my neck. 

I buy up men and sell their votes, 

And have them change their political coats. 

Whatever I want these fellows do, 

And I rake in sheckels not a few. 

I sail for coin to hide away 

For liberal use on a rainy day. 

Sing heigh! Sing ho! for the jolly tar 

That once was mate of the "Shooting Star. 



LIFE 

Life is warfare — 
It is merely a battle. 
Step into your place 
With sword and shield. 
Like a champion strike, 
Nor suffer the crowds 
To trample you under. 
Wounds will be yours. 
But none will escape them. 
Retreat is cut off — 
Lo! nothing is left 
But deadliest battle. 
The sands will redden 
Around you with blood, 
Parthian arrows will fly; 
Chariots of iron will rumble 
With ominous sound 
To oppose you. 
Murmur not. 
It is yours to contend 
Till the combat is ended. 



A P0P:T\S CPaTERIOX 

While I am lighting a cigar. 
Suggest to me some scientific test. 
Like a lot of lady loves my poems are. 
I lose my admiration for the rest. 
And always like the latest't)ne the best. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE VOAV 

[1S63. 1 

Amid the shock of arms 
This treasure I will bear, 
Where brave confront the brave. 
And vi^ith a proud despair. 
Play with the rods of death 
When havoc fills the air. 
Who finds my fallen form 
Will find thine image there. 



THE SUBSTITUTION EVIL 

The patent-medicine men 
O'er substitution evils rave, 
But note the anguish when 
Book-pirates brave, 
In anxious quest of graft. 
Mix up a bitter draught 
For poor Ambition's slave. 
It gives the son of song a quake. 
A bitter draught the pirates make. 
For nameless bards to take. 
They mix it, and fix it. 
And give it a shake, 
Then pass it to Apollo's child. 
Ah, me! it's never mild. 
'Jesus wept and "Voltaire smiled." 



OUIDA 

[Louise de La Ramee. | 

Her glowing tales brought wealth and fame- 
Jewels, plaudits, pleasures came; 
Then darkness hid her like a pall. 
In foreign clime in penury she died; 
Strange mystery concealed her fall. 
Sham Sorrow made to her no call. 
Nor homage paid in halls of pride; 
Sincerest grief to grief replied. 
As humble friends put her poor dust aside; 
Then kindly Death obscured it all. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

vp:ry blank verse 

•The trail of the Serpent is over it all." 

Villa — dead or alive! 
Salute or perish! 
Peace without victory, 
Slaughters without bloodshed, 
Frays without combats. 
War without battles, 
Battles without fighting, 
Armies without soldiers. 
Soldiers without weapons, 
Wounds without injuries, 
Death without doctors, 
"Words without meaning," 
Speeches! Speeches! Speeches! 
Bunk tor American idiots! 
We are too proud to fight. 
"Twould break the heart of the world. 
Rats! Rats! Rats! 



" A CALIFORNIA LOVE SONG 

Shine, shine, O Sun, to-day; 

Be blue, O skies, for me; 

Be still, shining Sea, 
And soft, O zephyrs play. 

Let all the lands be green. 

And heaven's purest light 

Descend in golden might 
On ev'ry circling scene. 

Let perfect peace be nigh 

To all the world to-day; 

Let clouds drift far away. 
And storms to deserts fly. 

\ 
O, perfumes, load the gale; 

O, roses, be more red; 

O, lilies, bow the head. 
And blanch in beauty pale. 

O birds that sing afar. 

Awake your songs once more; 

Your sweetest music pour 
Till shines the ev'ning star. 



192 SOXCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

O waters that we hear 

When night has shrouded all. 

Xow lighter be your fall, 
And sweeter to the ear. 

O leaves that rustle low^ 

When moves the idle wind, 
Droop on the air and find 

The softest sounds ye know. 

O fruits of ruddy hue, 

Your utmost splendors wear; 
T bid you look more fair 

Till falls tiie twilight dew. 

O grapes that blush so deep, 

That bloom in Summer's glow, 
Sway in the breezes slow. 

Or hang as if in sleep. 

For she shall come to-day, 

Who all my heart enthralls; 
A spell around her falls, 

And beautv haunts her way. 



THE FALL OF VICKSBURG 

What we shall perform will be sufficiently great. — Claudius 
hcfore battle. 

Tn blaze of brightest of mid-summer suns 
The giant river shines from shore to shore. 
The ceaseless booming of our battle guns 
Disturbs the smoky atmosphere no more. 
A silence reigns as when a storm is past. 
Our fleet of 'war in gloomy menace lies. 
Two armies meet, not by the bugle's blast, 
But with strange pleasure — with fraternal cries. 
No boast or insult from a victor falls. 
Words of rude chivalry and" kind replies 
Are heard alone within the conquered walls. 
Our banner o'er the fallen city flies. 
And warfares end o'er this colossal prize. 

First armadas came from triumphs won; 
They gave assault — their stormy wrath was vain. 
A noble army came — high deeds were done; 
The blood of soldiers poured like autumn rain. 
In vain were mighty fleet and army found. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 193 

The foe defiant held his vantage ground. 

His lofty heights loomed o'er a placid wave 

For miles, with cannon wall, with fortress crowned; 

Those martial hills were strewn with fallen brave.. 

Then Science cried: "Away with armed Force. 

We'll turn this ocean river from its course." 

The Median drew an Asian stream aside, 

To wrest away the throne of Babylon, 

But our great river smiled at mortal pride. 

It flowed unchanged in stately beauty on. 

Now to the sword the task is left once more, 
And Shiloh's heroes throng the sunset shore. 
The strife awakes with wilder, madder zeal; 
The lowland's tremble at the cannon's peal. 
The sylvan bird, amazed, restrains its song; 
Earth shudders at the thunders borne along. 
Fierce armies move on ramparts far away. 
Grand Gulf's green hills become their speedy prey; 
Not rivers, floods or fens can intervene 
As martial skill unrolls the warlike scene. 
Compels harsh Nature's obstacles to yield, 
Outflanks the foe, or wins each bloody field. 
At last within his famous fortress walls 
At bay he turns, wars to the last — and falls. 
The Rlississippi's tides, from warfare free, 
Unvexed flow on to tinge a torrid sea. 
On high the Nation's notes of triumph swell — 
They breathe defiance of all foreign foes. 
Proud legions mourn the paladins who fell, 
And Glory gilds their scene of last repose. 



CAREFUL PIP:TY 

With greenbacks to roll, 
Heaven is his goal ; 
His piety and prayer 
A business affair 
To save his soul. 



CLIO'S FvP^spoxsp: 

He has covered this Nation's face with shame as with 
garment. — Theodore Roosevelt. 

This verdict stern will Clio's voice declare: 
"Foul treasons festered in his lair; 
A Briton sat in Caesar's chair." 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE (iOLD HUXTEK 

I rode all day through the Utah hills. 
Mountain peaks clad In raiments of snow; 
Clear, cold, rippling mountain streams; 
The canyons deep, unlit by noon-day sun; 
Huge cliffs that walled the narrow rallies in — 
I spake of these, extolling each in turn. 

But the old man toyed with his long white locks 
And smiled — in a low voice talked of gold. 
He smiled and mused, then talked of gold. 
His restless eyes with fateful brilliance shone. 
I feared that solitude and years of quest 
For one sole thing had turned his brain. 
Howe'er I strove his theme to change, he smiled. 
Then mused awhile and talked of gold. 
He told me of his mine — a chimney mine- 
Rich beyond a miser's dream; filled with gold! 
Save his own, no human eye had seen this mine; 
Ay, none should see until the money kings 
Fawned round him like so many slaves. 
Then with the power of almighty coin 
Tore out the coffers of a mountain's heart, 
And laid its hoarded millions to the gaze. 
This would they do, and his the lion share. 

'Things are in earth," I said, "outshine this gold. 
Honor, love, respect of men, mental peace. 
What is gold to a desolate heart? 
To him whose ruined manhood mocks at tears? 
Whose life is one long tale of wasted powers? 
Who, like a suicide, has killed his fame. 
His high achievements and all peaceful joys?" 

'Gold," the old man said with peculiar smile, 
'Will buy all things that you have named — ay, more! 
'Twill buy the immortal souls of men. 
And fairest women ever born to love 
Will bow submissive at the shrine of gold. 
It buys the great man — body, brains and soul. 
The public rostrum will he mount for hire. 
And fiercely execrate what you command. 
Glory may be bought, applause of men. 
Gold buys you all— you each demand a price. 
In olden days, two thousand years ago, 
.Tugurtha warred with Rome; it was his vaunt 
He kept the mistress of the world at bay 
With gold; that had he only gold enough 
He'd buy out Rome — monarch, senate, throne and all. 
Beaten down at last, a captive made, 
Thev flung him in a gruesome hole to starve, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 195 

But only when his mighty gold was gone. 
Gold is ruler, prince and arbiter of all, 
The key that opes the way to pleasure halls, 
To happiness, delightful scenes of joy. 
Nothing withstands the pleasant sound of gold. 
Fame, power, ease, life, itself, it buys, 
It veils dishonor, treachery, deceit; 
O'ercomes each foe, turns grief to merriment. 
Among despotic scenes the man is free 
Whose coffers are well lined with minted gold, 
While in the freest land who has it not 
Is but the rich man's tool and sullen slave." 

"My dream is this. 'Neath California skies. 
Where purple ocean spreads his foamy waves; 
Where sunny mountains wear their changeful tints, 
A tall, fair palace shall anon arise. 
The roses of that soft celestial clime 
Shall scent the air^the breath of orange groves, 
And odors of a hundred gorgeous flowers. 
Close by the sea my princely home shall stand, 
Where lotus gales may fan its gardens wide. 
There shall 1 reign, enjoy, a potentate 
Supreme, by magic force of gold. 
All pleasures, pomps, delights that gold may buy 
Will celebrate my final happy days. 
Yea, luxuries will fill my royal halls. 
And music, such as Heaven's angels peal. 
Will vivify each passing idle hour. 
And fawning parasites and suppliants. 
With fulsome flatteries and cringing forms. 
Will circle round in hope to swiftly please. 
Gods! what power's in this mighty metal, Gold! 
White now these hoary locks, my forehead pale; 
Though shrill my voice, uncouth mine aged form, 
Think you the dames — the bright eyed damosels — 
Will not perceive some grandeur in my guise? 
One thing believe — they will not spurn my gold. 
For gems, apparel, pomp and gold 
Do much intoxicate fair woman's brain. 
Nor wildest miser hath such savage lust 
For coin as tender Woman hath. 
Ah, well! the dames will find me princely, too, 
And life shall be, for me, a poet's dream. 
So long I've brooded o'er this happy plan, 
With wealth enormous at my finger tips. 
It seems more sweet to revel in my dreams. 
Than with my gold to buy reality." 

I heard no more, but woke at dawn 
To find the lord of millions rolled 
In ragged blankets on an oaken floor. 



196 SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Years afterwards in loneliness he died. 

Stiff lie lay within his cabin rude, 

When found by prowling Navajoes. 

Stern, mountaineers, ere long, made hasty search 

For treasures they had heard wild rumors of, 

But not an ounce of Utah gold was found. 

The vaunted chimney mine, replete with ore. 

Was but a wriggling passage way in rocks. 

For years a lonely maniac, deranged 

By vigils long and solitary quest. 

Had kei)t his watch above a worthless pit. 

Rleanfime, perchance, more happiness was hia 

Than had he gained the vasty store of gold 

He madly dreamed was hid beneath his floor. 



SATAN KEIirivIXC; SIX 

Too sad, alas! the mournful tale, 
b, Byron, skilled in song to please. 
How nobler to have cast a veil 
Of purity o'er lovers frail. 
And left unstained, in sorrow pale, 
The beauty of the Cyclades. 



SALUTATION 



Thou god of song, veiled on Olympus high, 
Apollo, hail! saluting thee we die. 



NIGHT IN THE TROPICS 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 
How soft is Ocean's mellow chime 
In Equatoria's balmy clime, 
Where stars glow with translucent rays; 
Where brighter constellations blaze. 
And vaster orbs move o'er their ways 
Than in the North's pale, dreary skies. 
The soul an inward force obeys — 
It worships in this paradise. 
Or pines to range the starry waste 
In raptures that arch-angels taste. 
Or visit orbs in heaven's brow 
That lure us with their beauty now. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

Sweet idleness of sensuous Night — 

Voluptuous languor of the clime! 

Existence here is calm delight; 

None heed the flight of golden time — 

None hasten here — life has no goal; 

Soft indolence and idle joy 

These children of the sun employ. 

Upon the reefs the surges roll 

At Cardon's lonely ocean isle. 

Dark beauties pause — they hear — they smile, 

Then sing their clarion songs of love. 

Through vernal haunts paired lovers rove, 

By coyal palms obscured from sight. 

For all are lovers here; the night 

Is but a season for their vows. 

The stars, the gale, the seas arouse 

Emotions of sweet Passion's flame. 

The woodland Eve hath tender knight 

As well as noble haughty dame. 

These revelers gay children seem — 

Their land is but a summer dream. 

I rove upon a starlit shore, 

For cool the midnight ocean air; 

I hear the restless billows roar 

Far off to sea — though foamy there. 

The waters here are still as death, 

Or shimmer with a zephyr's breath, 

Then shine with stars, and all secure 

The freighted bongo slowly glides 

O'er liquid fire of phosphorus tides. 

Beyond the bay highlands obscure 

A peerless moon; the low bark rides 

A glossy flood, or floats at ease; 

Brown cavaliers their ladies please 

With light guitar, soft roundelay. 

The red Sun reigns o'er gorgeous day, 

And arbor, hammock and cigar 

To rest invite; romanceful night 

Has gentle music, love and star, 

And every form of gay delight. 



My status in Earth I mention with candor — 
An Jshmael, an utter Outlander; 
No clique or clan, lord, boss or commander. 
'Tis thus through life I venture and wander 
True to each friend and ruthless to foes — 
(The Indian's plan for various woes), 
Jly ultimate haven — eternal repose. 



198 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

oxcE j^ioPvE TO thp: caimps 

[March, 1864.1 

My cheek is pale, my pulse beats fast; 

My limbs, alas! are faint and sore; 
I shiver in this wintry blast, 

I tremble at its roar. 
And shall my dreary lot be cast 

Amid this Northland bleak and hoar? 

No more for me the leaden cloud 

Will frown along the sky; 
No more for me the tempest loud 

Will howl and shriek and sigh; 
No more for me in snowy shroud 

The King of Ice will whirl on high. 

No more for me the cutting cold 
Will fiercely range the frosty air; 

No more for me o'er heath and wold ' 
The winds will chorus of despair; 

No more for me the snows will fold 

Their shining robes o'er all that's fair. 

Adieu this drear and hostile clime — 
It has no beauties for my soul; 

Its very streams, with notes sublime. 
To Southern valleys roll; 

Why waste I here my fleeting time 
In this drear desert of my soul? 

Huzza! for the vine hills far away! 

For the boundless fields with cotton white! 
Huzza! for the lands of genial day. 

And summer lands of radiant night! 
Huzza! for the lands of fierce affray, 

Of sun and song and wine and fight! 



PPvOVP^RBIAL PHILOSC )PnY 

Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? 
Who hath redness of eyes? 

They that tarry long at the rhyme — ■ 
That perceive when the rhythm 
Floweth rightly in the verse. 

A man born to rhyme 
Is of few days 
And full of trouble. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 199 

Better to dwell on a house top — 

Yea, in a bug-house — 

With dinner of herbs, 

Than with a poet who reads you his verses. 

A man who saith: 

'Lo. I will strike the sounding lyre!" 
Shall not be rich. 

Shun the rhymester. 

Have none of his ways. 

Cut thy hair, nor wear it long. 

As the vain cow-puncher doth. 

Let thine eyes have no far away gaze, 

No pained expression. 

Sit not for a long time. 

Like to a growth on a log. 

In prodigious meditation. 

Pose not, when the picture man is nigh. 

Have not ink on thy pants. 

Nor on thy finger tips. 

Nor sigh wearily 

From exhaustive but inconsequential toil. 

Be not melancholy, nor greatly cast down, 

In that the goddess Fame 

Hath passed thee by. 

Could she not load a ferry-boat 

With people who write rhyme? 

Withhold not correction from a child 
That writeth rhyme. 
Smite him with a clul)— 
Yea, deliver him from Sheol. 

Devise not ill against a rhymester — 
He hath trouble enough as it is. 

He who maketh ballads to the moon, 

And pennetli soft sawder. 

Shall not bunco Peter at the gate. 

Beelzebub will gather him. 

And great shall be the taking thereof. 

The place wherein he shall dwell 

Will not be nice. 

A long time will he howl 

His doleful ditties there. 

Give ear, my son. 

Touch not the sounding lyre, 

Nor make a monkey of thyself 

To scribble rhyme ; 

Nor tackle booze, and think thyself 



200 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A very great poet indeed. 
Then shalt thou lay up gold 
In many coffers. 

O, tired is the world. 
To all the bards it crieth out: 
"Hold! Enough!" 

The man of sense doth read his butcher bill 
With very great care, when he hath no time 
To even know you have written ihyme. 

Is it not enough 

That no man whatsoever wanteth liiyme? 

Go to! put thy drivel in a fire. 

Then shall earth have peace, 

And the people rest, 

Xor be troubled with thee any more. 

Selah! 



CLOSIXC; FOR BATTLE 

Oppressive is the Sun's hot glare — 

No cloud obscures the fierce orb's brow; 

An awful tremor fills the air 

For all our lines are moving now. 

The drums are hushed — they would not dare 

Invoke a storm of slaughter yet ; 

No bugles call, no trumpets blare. 

But starry banners toss and fret 

O'er serried arms; a nameless dread 

Is blown on winds that sigh o'erhead. 

Discharged by swift, impulsive hands, 

A signal gun sends forth its peal. 

The foe confronts! Look where he stands 

Immovable, with walls of steel 

That loom before the startled van, 

Or soon deploy, or slowly wheel 

To meet the strife's unfolding plan. 

Proud war steeds plunge and cannons roll 

In silence o'er savannas green. 

Full soon Titanic bells will toll 

The dreadful music of the scene. 

With high appeals bold leadei^s urge 

Advancing lines to dare the shock. 

These move a monstrous ocean surge. 

Those? Coronado's ocean rock! 

Lo! myriads press on battle's verge; 

Soon o'er the dead will Slaughter stalk, 

And balmy zephyrs breath a dirge 

For those whom Glory's paeans mock. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 201 

PEKCIVAL 

Pale Percival, how sweet his mournful strain. 
Unfitted for a lawless world like ours, 
He could not sell his noble thoughts for gain; 
He could not all conceal his pure disdain. 
Where Merit pines and loud Assumption towers, 
He sang his chaste, his gentle songs in vain. 
Deep learned in all the treasured lore profound 
The slow-wheeled ages have on us conferred, 
No proper goal for lofty worth he found— 
His plaintive notes the world impatient heard. 
While ruder men could boast of hoarded gold, 
Could win the plaudits of gay Folly's throng 
Pale Percival. with hunger's pangs untold, 
To mar his notes, gave earth his song. 



HOME AT LAST 

His title no one will dispute. 

One spot awaits the rover brave; 

A blessed place of wide repute— 

A quiet, peaceful spot — 

A well-selected corner lot; 

A peaceful, tranquil, nameless grave. 

When he's crossed the Big Divide, 

And slid down on the other side. 

With a somewhat painful smile 

He'll stop and stay awhile, 

And do no traveling any more. 

All funerals are much a bore. 

But one we'll all anon attend 

Is waiting at the other end, 

And, Rollingstone, it is your own. 

Be ready when the game is on. 



BOHEMIA 



Where tired Ambition arms for foes; 

Where chosen spirits find repose 
From battles past where they fought well; 

Where Fancy reigns and genius glows. 
And earth's unfettered souls rebel 

At any chains the fates impose— 
(Where life assumes the hue of rose), 
The sons of gay Bohemia dwell. 



202 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

DEATH SPP:ECH OF .ROBERT EMMET 

[This passage is what remains of "The Trial Of Robert 
Emmet" — a poem I lost in the burning of San Francisco.] 



LORD XORBrRY 

The mighty throne your heated tongue maligns 
Will ne'er be shaken by an idle boaster's breath. 
Wild visionaries like yourself, who rush to death, 
Will never see fulfillment of their base designs. 
To mad extremes your zeal proceeds; an evil mind 
Betrays itself, with purposes too well defined. 
By public ranting such as this you would misguide 
Unwary dupes, and fools to consequences blind. 
'Tis treason that you here proclaim with lawless pride. 
Your wand'ring thoughts from sentimental woes with- 
draw, 
And listen to the sentence of the Law. 

ROKERT E^[:\IET 

Sir, your deceitful forms a prisoner harass. 

You have demanded why the sentence should not pass. 

It is a form. My sentence was decreed 

Before yon minion rose a single charge to read; 

Before this court in solemn state assembled here, 

Before your lordship came in majesty severe. 

My sentence I await, but to the forms adhere. 

Let olden tricks of tyranny be cast aside, 

For I demand the right your question has implied. 

Must sanguinary courts abase the victim's mind, 

Subdue his soul, befoul his honored name. 

As preparation for his death of studied shame? 

Ere his dismembered form is to the grave consigned? 

Is this the clemency your vaunted courts asume? 

More dread to me than scaffold, rope or felon's doom 

Is Slander's tongue. If here 1 may not vindicate 

My name and fame, who dares that fame calumniate? 

For those 1 love no legacy may be entailed 

Save that the tongues of hireling slaves have here asailed. 

With dying breath my spotless name I will defend — 

Ay, against the world, and to the bitter end. 

I have been branded as a venal tool of France, 

An emissary of a hostile foreign land. 

Intent, my petty private fortunes to advance. 

By landing armed foes upon my native strand. 

My country's peace, her independence, I have sold 

As Arnold once betrayed — for paltry sums of gold, 

For feudal rank, despotic Power's potent smile. 

O calumnies absurd! most infamous and vile! 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 203 

I sought alone my fallen country's weal, 

The freedom of an ancient race; my brain, my hand, 

My heart, have all been moved by patriotic zeal 

For independence of my native land. 

No viler motive o'er my name be cast. 

Though wild, chimerical, it now may seem, and vast 

The power of a mighty empire we oppose. 

Force yet remains — yea, concord — to o'erwhelm our foes — 

To rend from place the regal emblems we despise. 

And proudly consummate this noblest enterprise. 

Lest none of you my memory assail, or say: 
'He was a loathsome creature, born of troubled times. 
His nation's liberties he would have sold for pay. 
This traitor met his fate for many grievous crimes. 
He had a lust for gold, a vanity for sway. 
For monster such as he we have no fitting name. 
He strove to ply a trade in our fraternal blood; 
Had barter with our foes across an ocean's flood. 
In hope to profit from his native country's shame." 
O calumnies of Hate! Shall I, my lord, who brave 
Your jealous despot now, and for my native race. 
In Freedom's holy cause, approach a dreary grave — 
Shall I in silence brook such idle slander base? 
Away! I hurl denial in youi' lordship's face. 
Nor seek to burden me with such atrocious guilt 
As being cause of all the blood now being spilt 
In just resistance to a ruthless foreign king. 
Charge me with this, when even now is being built 
The scaffold rude whereon my murdered form will swing? 

In sacrificial haste your noble lordship seems. 

The blood your throne must have still pours its ruddy 

streams. 
Impetuous and warm in ample veins it flows. 
Artificial terrors your legal pomps impose 
Congeal not its flood. O still have delay. 
My flame of life is quenched, my mortal toils are done. 
To the grave's awful stillness I now take my way. 
Earth opens to receive her unfortunate son. 
Silence of the world is the boon that I implore. 
Let me slumber obscure on this desolate shore. 
Who is there who will dare my course to vindicate? 

traduce not my name in ignorance and hate. 
Till my country is free, let me slumber unknown. 
No memorial rise, no funeral stone; 

No trophy be reared o'er my patriot grave 
While this island is trod by a tyrant or slave. 

1 shall rest me in peace till the triumph Is won, 
Nor perish in vain. Noble lord, I have done. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

WHERK FOHTrXE SMILES 

[1908.1 

The Carib seas and austral isles 

Are scenes no more where Fortune smiles. 

Pactolian streams pour sands of gold 

From Mexico's hot, riven slopes, 

Where frenzied men, with glowing hopes, 

Tear out each vein, each crevice old. 

In eager quest of wizard gold — 

Rude, lawless men of moody brows, 

Whose heaven is in fierce carouse 

Where music peals and Vice arrays — 

Dark, silent men w^ith fearless ways. 

Each hides a grief with sadness fraught — 

A shame, an ill, of former lot — 

Or olden things are all forgot 

In fury for the Midas prize 

That far within each mountain lies. 

They ravish spoil from Nature's hold. 

And revel, brawl and lavish gold. 



THE OZARK HILLS 

The Ozark Hills, in vernal green. 
Have bowers cool for sweetest rest. 
Whose boughs no sun rays pierce between 
From farthest east to utmost west. 
O roam within — the whole fair scene 
For any careless heart is blest. 



A YorniFrL woe 

The dream is gone — an humble cot 
On some green hillside's grassy slope, 
With palms around the sacred spot. 
And roses in the little plot. 
And peace and happiness and hope 
Beneath the roof where she should reign. 
O heart, thou shalt atone for this! 
O happy dream, come not again 
With promises of perfect bliss 
And burdenings of utter pain. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 205 

PYIJRIIl S THE KING 



If gods are kind — with this great conquest made — 

Why shall our march of victory be stayed? 

Not till proud Carthage shall my sceptre own. 

And I am master of the Lybian throne. 

When Afric's shore beneath my power quails, 

Our fleets of war shall homeward set their sails. 

Yea, homeward shall a dauntless victor come, 

With laurels crowned, rich with imperial spoil. 

To plunge great Macedonia in turmoil. 

For Greece must yield to him who conquers Rome. 

Then? Then? Why, then we'll fling these arms away, 

And end in countless joys this mortal day. 

CIXEAS 

O, monarch, pause! Draw not again the sword 
To stake a mighty throne in changeful war. 
Lo! every bliss these happy realms afford, 
And splendor shines from your triumphal car. 
Rich palaces a royal soldier wait, 
With trophies hung, and filled with lemans fair. 
Tempt not the vengeance of insulted Fate; 
Enjoy, while yet for you life's pleasures are. 
Why scourge a frighted world, in mad array, 
With ruin, death, calamity and woe — 
To gain, when useless tumults pass away, 
When hecatombs are Slaughter's prey, 
What Heaven confers without a blow? • 
Why wade through seas of human blood to gain 
What now is yours, unmixed with mortal pain? 
O Pyrrhus pause! Who spurns the cup of joy. 
Revengeful gods in burning wrath destroy. 

PVIUUIl s 

Portentous words! They cause me mighty pain. 
Who suffers with Ambition's deadly curse, 
Must keep his path, come loss or gain, 
Come joy or woe, or mortal sorrows worse, 
Great heroes rise at Destiny's command; 
They fright the world, they scourge and mar. 
Like puppets moved by Fate's malignant hand. 
With doom decreed, they run their course 
Through conflagration, strife and force. 
Let trumpets peal! Fling banners to the gale! 
This day 'gainst haughty Rome my fleet shall sail; 
Lucanian hills shall thrill with shocks of war. 
Sacked cities burn, their walls with carnage stream; 
O fateful shall the sword of Pyrrhus gleam 
Where shrieks and wails and ghastly slaughters are. 
The trumpets peal! Proud banners be unfurled! 
Pyrrhus is in arms to desolate the world. 



206 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

HIS ONLY WEALTH 

[See note in Prose Addenda.] 

A voice came out a rich man's grave: 
"Tlie wealth I won at heavy cost, 
I left behind — I count it lost. 
The coin I spent for good or bad — 
For pleasure, sport — I only had. 
In getting gold I was a slave, 
But all I have in this lone grave — 
My only wealth — is what I gave." 



KEXESAW 



Where Kenesaw its lofty crest 

Reared threatn'ing 'neath a torrid sky, 

Long had our legions hotly pressed 

To fiercely strive and proudly die. 

From peak to peak and height to height 

The gleam of bayonets met the sight; 

On barren ridge and hills of stone 

The brazen-throated cannons shone. 

And tents were white in vales between, 

Half hid by summer's robes of green. 

And silent squares of daring men 

Were massed within each leafy glen, 

And parapets and walls of clay 

Far o'er the mountain stretched their way; 

And fortress dark, on every side. 

To fortress dark in rage replied; 

And musketry in volleys broke 

From leaguered lines through woods of oak 

And where the ])eaks were lost in blue, 

Rebellion's haughty standards flew. 

The sun went down- in blazing ire, 

His glory mingled with our fire; 

His gorgeous streams of golden light 

Poured flood-like through the roaring fight. 

And all the stars our banners bore 

Gleamed like ^Montana's yellow ore. 

No moon was forth when night was come, 

No longer rolled the warning drum; 

No rifle cracked from vale or hill. 

The rumbling guns grew strangely still. 

And weary with the day gone by. 

Each soldier placed his weapons nigh 

And laid him down to dream or die. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 207 

Late was the hour swift riders bore 

Strange tidings through those forests hoar. 

With cautionings of watchful foes 

Our chieftains roused us from repose. 

No trump was blown, no signal made, 

But like a host become afraid. 

For leagues and leagues the still lines poured 

Back from their works, as surges creep 

Back to the fountains of the deep 

When baffled by the firm sea-board; _ 

And then, as rent, conflicting tides, 

Sore fretted by the wailing blast, 

Resolve into a current vast 

That cannot scale the cliff's tall sides, 

But past its base resistless glides, 

S.0 formed we there and westward swept 

While still the foe unthinking slept. 

Long was the night, and silence dread — 
So strangely deep it seemed the dead 
IMight stir beneath our martial tread — 
Far as Cimmerian darkness spread. 
Intensely reigned; some muttered word 
Anon amid the gloom was heard, 
Some charger's neigh, some clank of steel, 
The noise of some half muffled wheel. 
Some wild bird's scream, as if in fright — 
And these alone disturbed the night. 

With balmy winds and azure skies 
Morn came in Triumph's splendid guise. 
Upon the foe's far flank we bore 
In War's proud pomp, with music's roar, 
And columns massed, and seas of steel, 
And musketry's terrific peal. 
And crash of shell, and cannon glare. 
And thund'ring cheers that rolled away 
O'er mountain slope or valley dell, 
As though the hosts of Caesar's day, 
Or clans that fought when Ilion fell, 
In fury marshalled for affray. 

The startled foe, amazed, undone. 
Recoiled before that storm of might. 
And ere the stars of early night 
Our banners waved from hill and height — 
Embattled Kenesaw was won. 



EIYAL CHIEFS 



Two mighty men were born, high chiefs of war to be- 
Napoleon on the shore, Lord Nelson on the sea. 



208 SON CIS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



A CALIFOKXIA SCENE 

In raiJtiire — nay, in adoration stand. 
See where the sunset tinges ocean's tide. 
Palms, roses, vineyards, fill the valley wide; 
Green bowers cool and orange groves expand. 
All famous fruits in gay profusion shine. 
All precious wines flow from the luscious vine; 
Earth's bounties pour as by a god's command. 
This is the gem of all the southern land, 
With sylvan scenes; a pure, celestial clime — 
Vales of delight by sea-born zephyrs fanned. 
AH through the year 'tis one sweet summer time. 
With ev'ry weal that mortal hearts demand. 
An Eden rolls 'tween hills and ocean grand. 



KEFKAIX IN DIXIE 

The feet that tread o'er many lands 

Grow too broad for leathers fine; 

Campaigning scatters life's few sands. 

And private soldiers can't resign. 



COMBAT L' Ol TRANCl^: 

No silver moon or tranquil star 

Sheds o'er my path one lonely ray, 
But ebon shades my progress bar. 

Weird omens haunt my dismal way. 
Shall utter darkness ever last? 

^larch onward! be my dauntless cry. 
'I've set my life upon a cast— 

I'll stand the hazard of the die.' 



H ALCYONE 

I\Iore graces crown you in Love's scene 
Than Egypt's proud and fated queen 
Imperious wore, in Fortune's smile, 
When, drifting o'er the placid Nile, 
The love songs of her nymphs subdued 
The very winds her galleys wooed. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 209 

IOWA AUTITMX 

The red sun rises like a ball of fire, 

All shorn of lustrous beams; its rosy hue 

Burns through the jiiists of morn, that soon expire, 

And robs the warm, brown hills of pearly dew; 

Then o'er the landscape rolls a smoky haze — 

The Tyrian purple of October days. 

The streams, at noon, in lazy splendor flow; 

At eve the moon sails like a golden shield. 

Or silver cestus, o'er blue heaven's field. 

No sign forewarns of winter's chill advance. 

No breezes murmur, gales or zephyrs blow. 

But earth is happy in a joyous trance. 

As raptured o'er a lavish season's yield 

Of flowers, fruits, rich treasures of the field. 

Torn, riiutilated cornstalks, brave no more. 
Seem like old fighters ranged o'er vale or hill 
To yield up arms — high clemency implore. 
Since age hath rived them of their warlike skill, 
And leaves them helpless in a foeman's land. 
To meekly wait a victor's cold command. 
Where is the glory of their summer days. 
When haughtily they bore the steadfast rays 
Of nortl^ern sun, or heat of hostile skies. 
And wore their tassel plumes in martial guise. 
And warred with gales, and waved each saber blade 
Like princely knights of dangers unafraid. 
So wanes a bold, impetuous man away. 
As age steals o'er him — chills his wonted fire. 
With trembling hand he moves his locks of grey, 
Nor strife, nor triumph now is his desire. 
His wrath is vain. Repose — deep silence please. 
He totters to his couch to dose at ease. 
The tall oak's boughs will soon be bare. 
For, leaf by leaf, its flamy splendors fall. 
The rooks across the peaceful valley call, 
The dry leaves rustle at each breath of air, 
A myriad lovely hues the groves adorn. 
Ere autumn yet assumes a mien forlorn. 



14 



BYRON, BURNS AND POE 

strong drink, bards, you should not much desire: 

It sets your crazy brains on fire. 

And snaps the chords of proud Apollo's lyre. 



210 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A CHAT WITH PHIDIAS 

"Gold will wear away; silver will tarnish, wood will decay, 
the granite stone itself will disintegrate, but jewels will 
continue unchanged for thousands of years." 

"What are you building here, my lord, 

With such a massive wall?" 
"I'm building here, my friend, 
A lot of rock to fall. 

Whate'er we plan with busy brain 

To high o'ertop each hill and plain — 

Castle, palace, prison, fane — 

In time will tumble down again. 

Soon as we get the final slab to stay, 

And fling our hated tools away. 

The pile we've reared commences to decay. 

This thought, just now, began to give me pain." 



PvETEOSPECTIOX 

'Tis sad to wake from some delicious trance, 

And find its airy splendors fled; 
'Tis sad to meet some dear, familiar glance. 

And find its soul of love is dead ; 
Tis sad to see a noble bark 

Go down amid the sea; 
'Tis sad to sit and silent mark 

A well loved spirit flee; 
"Tis sad to see a gallant band 

Close round a leader tried, 
And see the foe, Avith potent hand, 

O'erwhelm them in their pride; 
'Tis sad to see a dauntless form 

Guide conquest on its way. 
And pass unscathed amid the storm. 

To fall at close of day; 
'Tis sad in indigence to feel 

The bitter curse of Fortune's frown. 
Nor hope to make Derision kneel 

At blaze of genius and renown; 
'Tis sad to see the crumbling wall 

Where childhood's home hath been; 
'Tis sad to see a dear one fall. 

And feel your own the sin. 



THE DIFFEPEXCE 

I've learned a bit of wisdom in life's ungentle school- 
Success makes a hero and failure makes a fool. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 211 



LUCILE 

O paragon of flesh and blood, 
With hair as black as deepest night, 
And eyes that seem a dreamy flood 
Of passion in resistless might. 
Joy not in Beauty's transient reign. 
'Tis but a day. Eve comes again. 
Thy raven hair as dark as night, 
Will be anon as lilies white. 
The glow that tints thy dainty cheek, 
With waning years will take to flight. 
Ah! cruel Time, his fingers bleak 
Full swiftly mar each chief delight. 
Fair Pleasure's sweets are swiftly sped; 
Our joyous days, how soon they glide; 
Our fondest hopes — they soon are dead, 
But Sorrow seeks her victim's side. 
And long — ah! long doth there abide. 



SOLDIER OF FOETUXE 

Soldier of fortune, trust well to thy blade; 
In gloomiest ordeals be not afraid. 
Skies that are sombre grow brighter anon, 
Hosts are unconquered till valor is gone. 
Follow thy banner, as Glory leads on. 
Fearless of danger, in sunlight or shade, 
Soldier of fortune, trust well to thy blade. 



A SEXTUIEXTAL DREAM 

While ignorance and greed and superstitions thrive, 

This earth will reek with bloody wars. 

In vain the dream of endless peace. ^ 

Force moves the planets on their courses true, 

And Force- must rule a lawless world. 

Our fellow man, despite a slight vaneer, 

Is but a brute and savage yet. 



THE FAR SOUTH 

The Night hath veiled her starry charms, 
The Sun-god waves resplendent arms; 
Warm, blushing Day, queen of the zone, 
Ascends once more her blazing throne. 



212 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



CARINUS 

The lord of Rome, in cruel mirth, 
Despoiled a faithful soldier's hearth. 
As if indifferent of the crime. 
The soldier bided well his time. 
At last it came, the annals tell. 
In blood the brutal despot fell. 
I'll twine at last a laurel crown 
For him who smote Carinus down. 



A (^P]REAL STORY 

[19181 

I keep the human race alive. 

But, up to date, no poet sings of me. 

Where countless populations thrive 

Not a living man would be. 

Except for me. 

There's little use my virtues to repeat. 

Man's a crazy cad — dupe or cheat — 

Or both, to make expenses meet. 

What's my name? you ask. My name is Wheat; 

High toned, high in price, and hard to beat — 

The Anglo-Saxon's chosen grain; 

My home's in Freedom's proud domain. 



AMERICAN SOLDIERS IX FRANCE 

The war is over, battle banners furled; 
The Hun is licked; we had no fears. 
But greet you, boys, as knightly peers 
Of any fighters in the world. 



THE DEMON -TF"' 

[See Note in Prose Addenda. I 

Of all the fiends impatient people curse — 

Hobgoblins, witches, ghouls and imps perverse — 

Whose evil deeds we see rehearsed 

In melancholy tomes that nearly burst 

With miseries, the demon "If" is worst. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 213 



PEACE APOSTLES 



Here, Jawn's a gun. 

Git the dawg and kill the song birds. 

We didn't raise our boy to be a soldier, 



COLT MBIA'S PTAH 

"In Go(l)d We Trust." 
Egypt had its gods — they vanished one by one. 
Phoenicia's chosen god- — it was the mighty Sun. 
Assyria had its gods and so had Babylon. 
From Greek and Trojan down to Visi-Goth and Hun, 
They all had gods to heap their crazy honors on. 
Columbia has a god that beats them — every one! 
A god for business, pleasure, politics and fun, 
That closer than a brother sticks — 
The god of Gold, my son. 



char(;tx(; a kiele prr 

Above our heads, across the vale, 
Our battery, with screaming hail. 
Dashed the opposing works away 
As tempests toss the ocean spray. 
And yet our leader's ringing call 
Was heard distinct above it all. 

'Mid sharp commands and hot replies 

I faintly heard a score of cries. 

And then, in wild disorder still. 

Our curving lines surged up the hill, 

A gleaming mass of fearless men. 

The moments sped like dizzy dreams. 

Amid a tumult of alarms. 

The flash of steel, the roar of arms, ^, 

Explosions, curses, groans and screams. 

The rush of crowds, the fall of men 

That heedlessly were trampled then— 

The sight of blood, the glare of fire — '''^*,j 

All, mingled in confusion dire. 

And scarcely knowing which had lost> 

In wrath the battlements we crossed. 



JAYTOWX CHA^^IPIOX 

Him? Why that's the feller that won the cup. 
He swallers his giggle and coughs it up. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



A EOBBER KNIGHT 

Forage liberally on the country. 

— WillUim Tccumseh Sherman 

A wise bird is the busy Crow; 

A military bird, I'd have you know. 

He hieth forth at early morn; 

He sees the stupid farmer go, 

Then tills himself with captured corn. 

A shotgun cracks, but Crow is gone. 

IMuch dainty food he feasted on. 

For merry conversation bent, 

Unto his fellows does he tell 

How wide the deadly missiles went, 

How far apart they vainly fell. 

No angry farmer shooteth well. 

With stolen corn Crow filled his sack. 

Caw! Caw! Caw! he loudly carols back. 

Chattering fast in accents wise 

Of the conservation of supplies, 

And driving hoosiers nigh insane, 

By commandeering" their grain. 

Crow is off to fleece an oaten stnck. 

Let him get who hath the power. 

Crow pliilosopliy is to devour 

All in siglit, when farmer turns his back. 

The grasshopper laughed; he said: "Well, well! 

It really seems that war is hell, 

But world-wide peace will never do — 

What IMalthus wrote is coming true. 

We'll have new ways to run a farm. 

And make hillbillies all disarm. 

Crows must live, grasshoppers prey; 

The time has come for our New Day. 

That Congress chap must turn his coat 

Or surely lose the grasshopper vote." 



THE WILD SnXFLOWEK 

O'er all the boundless prairie zones, 

it sways and lifts its golden crown; 

Salutes the Sun, his power owns. 

Till in liis pomp the Sun goes down. 

Rude in its beauty, this wild flower 

Charms the plainsman's idle hour; 

Through sterile soil it forces way. 

The sunrays linger on its crest. 

It proudly glows in scorching day — 

'Tis emblem of the boundless West. 

Afar eacli nameless flower nods — 

Yellow lilies, purple thistles, goldenrods. 

Bestrew the gardens of the gods. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 215 



A piratp: soxg 

Yo ho! ahoy! heave ho! for Dead Man's Isle. 
Where are the men we gazed upon? 
Sheepish men with stupid smile, 
That lingered around our way a while? 
Where have they gone for many a mile? 

'They drained to dregs a bitter cup; 
They wilted away — they shrivelled up. 
To Dead Man's Isle those men have gone." 

Alas for Armageddon's day! 

Disaster sweeps upon its way. 

Those men are gone? What shall we do? 

Who now will pull the country through? 

' 'Tis prophecy of high command 

That preachers and petticoats rule the land; 

Pullets and preachers, 

And feminine teachers, 

And heavenly creatures 

Of Gideon's band. 

With inspirations true — 

O hoop-de-dooden-doo! 

They will rule the land — 

They will pull the country through." 

Skulls and bones lie in a pile — 

Let's heave away for Dead Man's Isle. 



DEADLY T()LTP]C DOPE 

[See note in Prose Addenda.] 

'What have you there, my comrade true?' 
'The finest thing you ever knew. 
See how it shines like morning dew. 
'Twill make you happy — crazy, too. 
Have a taste of jMarihuana Brew." 



THE MEXICAX PEOX 

Hot blooded, deadly in his ire. 
Hate sets his very veins on fire. 
Silent in his tranquil mood; 
Kindly, generous and good; 
Sympathetic, friendly without fear; 
Rude, but courteous as a cavalier. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



ASSAULT TX FORCE 

"We fought that not a slave should be 
From Polar snows to tropic sea. 

With all the pageantry and pride, 
That ever Terror's front defied 
Since Satan dared a God to scorn, 
We marched up through the shining corn. 

Led on by chiefs of iron mould. 
One impulse wild our hearts controlled — 
One impulse wild, in wrath condign 
To break the foe's unconquered line. 

No thoughts of home deterred us then, 
No thoughts of love from maids or men. 
No fear of pain, no sombre dread 
Lest Night its mantle dusk should spread 
O'er vanquished lines and slaughters red; 
But, like a scourge for vengeance sent. 
Lost in our pomp and fierce intent, 
And proud to be the hope forlorn. 
We marched up through the shining corn. 

There was a flash — a blinding light 
Streamed down the crest from left to right 
Like lightnings flung from folds of night, 
And swift a crash of dread import 
Rolled up from bastion, trench and fort; 
The cannons dark vehement spoke. 
Destruction from its sleep awoke. 
And canopied amid the smoke. 
Its ghastly wings exulting spread. 
Sulphurous clouds in volumes dense 
Swayed slowly o'er the strife intense. 
And leaden hail with vengeful speed 
Smote down the ranks that dared to lead. 
And while we faced the storm of death. 
And struggled on with bated breath, 
Resolved to win, and yet dismayed; 
Confused, appalled, yet scarcely staj-ed. 
The cruel cheers of taunting foes 
From out their shielding works arose. 
I could not tell for dust and smoke 
Just where our column soonest broke. 
But backward hurled in rout complete, 
In shameful plight it wildly fled, 
And flags ne'er borne in base retreat 
Were furled above our gallant dead. 
There was no stop, there was no stay; 
In massacre had closed the fray, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



And frantic haste and mad dismay 
Impelled us down the trampled slope 
Where late we charged with dauntless hope. 
As though a world would fail to cope 
With us in all our stern array. 

A tiny stream stole down the vale 

Where first our storming column massed, 

Upon whose breast the lilies pale 

Were late in beauty purely glassed, 

But we had soiled it as we passed — 

Had marred its outlines with our tread — 

And here and there a tint of red 

Came floating down its troubled tide, 

Presaging that some wretch had died 

By shrieking missile surely sped. 

Along its margin halted all. 

Some stopped to breathe, and some to call 

For friends they feared to meet no more; 

And some because of anguish sore 

From wounds they scarcely knew they bore; 

And all, because the sheltered spot 

Secured them from the plunging shot. 

Anon the thunders died away, 

The smoke dissolved in genial day; 

The victors' hoarse, incessant cheers 

In painful clamor reached our ears; 

And then the air became so still 

You might have heard that tiny rill 

Go stealing o'er its sandy bed, 

Had not the dying moaned instead. 



WRITTEN FOK -JUDITPT"' 

[For some forgotten reason, I excluded these lines from 
the poem. | 

She summoned then Bethulia's mighty ones, 
jMen of high fame, the nation's chosen sons. 
That they should heed the soldiers' clamors loud 
She spake in tone of lofty censure proud: 
"Not thus," she said, "our fathers did of old. 
They faced invasion with a spirit bold; 
Before their cities fell to bloody spoil, 
They died in combat on their native soil. 
Therefore, my lords, a stern example show; 
Disdain a thought of Zion's overthrow; 
By fierce decision of the sword abide. 
Hold fast the walls! Assyria be defied! 
For if the city bows to Judah's foe. 
The bulwarks of the land are swept aside." 



218 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE WAY IT IS 

My rover bold, where'er you go, 
You'll meet a friend or face a foe. 



A 1U)VER\S FANCY 

dark and austere and savagely drear. 

The wide waters rolled to an ultimate sea. 
And the winds that arose from their sullen repose, 
Had a myriad voices for me. 

When zephyrs that float from the rich glowing West, 
Oft thrill us with murmurs and sighs, 

And the gales that disturb the face of the deep 
Sound the paeans of turbulent skies. 

Who doubts that the mind, in sadder refrains, 
Interprets the burden so solemnly sung. 

And gathers from Nature's gloomier strains 
A weightier wisdom than eloquent tongue 

E're thundered from altar or lorum profound 
To listening masses low bending in awe — 

A weightier wisdom, that vaults o'er the bound 
Encircling Creation's inscrutable Tiaw. 

1 believe these sounds, though mystic and crude, 
Are echoes that from Omnipotence fall. 

And the mind when in a sensitive mood 
Can ponder and fathom them all. 

As I stood on the steep that looked o'er the sea. 
And the winds came forth to trouble the night, 

A magical lore seemed given to me 

To know their weird symphonies right. 



SOCOKKO 

A very bad egg 
O'erfiUed his beer keg, 

And still kept crying for more, O; 
So they said he must go 
To the city below 

Geographers call Socorro. 
He disdained to ride on a burro. 
And had not a lone cent of oro. 
So he hit a box car, 
And hopped in, by gar! 

And straight on he rode to Socorro. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

SOUTHERX C ALI FORXIA 

Where, on sunset shores, the Spanish knights 

A fortress reared, or where a mission came. 

There will you. find a clime that man delights — 

As fair as Cashmere Vale of classic fame. 

Castilian sons had scorn of wintry zones 

Where surges dash on icy capes and isles. 

And Ocean's wave with smothered sorrow moans. 

Their sails were flown where am'rous Nature smiles. 

And heaven's blue is bright with torrid star; 

Where sensuous airs breathe low with tender wiles — 

Where precious ores, rich wines and roses are. 

Zones of Hesperus! Balmy lotus vales. 

With care swept o'er by velvet ocean gales; 

Voluptuous and amaranthine shores 

Where never echo of a tempest roars. 

Imperial home! Here came they last. 

Yet lightly viewed a prize that careless lay. 

Those lordly cavaliers went sailing past 

With restless hearts, with gloomy minds o'ercast, 

In quest of Eldorados far away. 

O peaceful times that olden era saw. 

The men of holy sign and low command — 

Of creed severe — impressed with gentle awe 

The simple native children of the land — 

Withdrew them from wild haunts in arid hills, 

Threw ancient arms of tribal war aside; 

With kindly zeal subdued their wayward wills. 

Then gave them peaceful arts and civic pride. 

The mission shone near by the purple sea. 

Rich flowers bloomed and ivy climbed the rocks; 

The grain and luscious fruits were fair to see; 

The vales were filled with herds, with peaceful flocks. 

No ruder peal came o'er the sunny air 

Than sacred bells that sweetly called to prayer. 

Upon this restless orb of mortal war; 

Of mad ambition, selflsh toil, 

O that one scene had held its happy bar 

Against the votaries of golden spoil — 

One blessed scene where Peace might still abide, 

Though violence marred all the world beside. 



DEFEAT OF XARVAEZ 

When Fortune flies no deeds avail. 
So wage in haste this hopeless flght. 
And win a grave this rueful night — 
Spain has no use for knights that fail. 



220 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

LEXINGTON 

Remotest empires felt the jar 
When myriads thronged Arbela's plain, 
And Alexander's rising star 
Bade hoary Asian glories wane. 
What good befell the human race 
From all the slaughters of that field? 
Two despots fought for lofty place, 
And one was forced to yield. 
At Lexington, (what humble fray!) 
Eleven men were slain, 
But centuries may pass away 
* Ere full fruition of that day — 

Ere final import of that field, 
To mortal ken will be revealed. 

Since human blood such harvest bears 
When spilled in some most noble cause, 
How dares a despot scout the laws 
Of God and man, for base applause, 
And waste it in unholy wars? 



A (iOOl) vroRi) 

Here in a lonely grave a worthy hero lies. 
The reckless leader of the boldest enterprise; 
Now ruling all, and now to tyranny a dread. 
Martial bays and civic chaplets crowned his head. 
Alone he perished in the summer of his prime. 
To glut a brother's hate, atone a social crime. 



SELF C^ONTPvOL 

The talisman of life success 

Is self control! 
Whatever makes thy power less. 
That bars thy way to envied goal — ■ 
Whatever weakness, vice or snare — 
O shun, avoid, with anxious care. 
Draw thou a line with stubborn will. 
To guard thee from disastrous ill, 
And hold thy place impassive there. 
Preserve thyself at any cost — 
Yield but an inch and all is lost. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 221 

A CAMPAKiX INCIDENT 

Within the bloody trenches lay 
The fairest one of Slaughter's prey. 
His eyes were fixed with stony stare, 
And yet his lips betrayed no pain, 
But high resolve was mirrored there, 
As though the doubtful field to gain 
Were worth the piles of mangled slain 
That smoked beneath the torrid air. 

To see if life could still remain, 

A sergeant, grim -v^ith powder stain — 

A rude, rough fellow, quick to dare. 

Yet kind of heart as women are — 

In tenderness knelt by his side, 

And lifted back his dabbled hair, 

And rent his bloody dress aside, 

When lo! a maiden's breast was there. 

A startled oath the soldier swore. 

Then slowly rose in blank amaze. 

Strange, weird things we had seen before, 

In ventures wild of stormy days. 

Alas! we saw fair cities blaze. 

We saw the fierce tornado blend 

Its wrath with Man's and Heaven send 

Its lightnings down to quiet ours. 

Around us were Destruction's powers 

In every form and every phase. 

In mellow light of summer moons 

Louisiana's wide lagoons 

Had borne us far to scenes where well 

You might have deemed a wizard spell 

Had bid the low green shores expand 

To vistas of some fairy land. 

On Tennessee's rich hills of fruit. 

Along the Tallahatchie's tide; 

Where amber Yazoo's floods are mute. 

Or Etowah — Tuscumbia — glide; 

Where Vicksburg towered in her pride, 

Disputing for imperial sway. 

Much had we seen no future day 

Will far excel — much to appall. 

To startle, rapture or dismay — 

But this strange sight surpassed them all. 

The trumpets pealed — there was no time 
For lamentations o'er the dead. 
The foremost lines began to climb 
A wooded height whereon 'twas said 
The foe had rallied for a stand. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

And so upon that gory crest 

We made a grave where she might rest. 

And laid her down with tender hand. 

Her woes unknown, unknown her name. 

She sleeps upon her field of fame. 

No storied page her deeds will tell, 

But calm she sleeps and all is well. 



KING OF THP: AMERICAN IDIOTS 

In his own name and by his own proper authority. — W. W. 

The greatest of all our Presidents. — Jones of Neio Mexico. 

You can fool some of the people all the time, and part of 
the people some of the time, but you can't fool all the people 
all the time. — Abraham Lincoln. 

There are people in America who think America would 
be better off under the British flag. Sometimes I think 
there is such a man in the White House.- — V. ^. Senator 
Xnrris of Nebraska, t'.l'il. 

Faithless to many, but ever to himself most true, 
The world must bid to him contemptuous adieu. 

What wonderful lesson will History teach. 
When worn-out shams and reputations bleach? 
What sort of honors will he wear 
When future tomes his blunders tell? 
To lay his hidden motives bare 
In burning words, I scarcely dare. 
'•Platitudinarian" suits him well. 
W^ith mulish frown his lip he curled. 
And bade them "break the heart of the world." 
******* 

Subtle arrogant, of sullen mood. 
His imperial robes reeked red with stain 
Of unavenged American blood. 
Smooth of tongue and yet of shallow brain, 
O'er fawning hordes he held his monstrous reign. 
With bloody Ruin hasting in his train. 
Haiti's crimes and Europe's blunders mar 
The vaunted splendor of this Morning Star. 
******* 

With honeyed words, mellifluous and sweet, 

He cast our liberties at Europe's feet. 

The pliant tool of foreign powers, 

All lands he served but this great land of ours. 

Columbia wept at hideous waste 

That left both land and flag disgraced. 

Thrifty to excess; of self and power vain, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 223 

A Nero's lavishness disturbed his evil reign. 
For startled citizens to fiercely damn. 
Tremendous waste that moved him not 
At times awoke unpleasant thought 
For dainty platitudes to calm. 
Enormous love of regal pomp and praise 
Contrived to ever keep him in the public gaze. 
He posed, he grinned; with brazen face 
He played the Caesar in his. transient place. 
Cagliostro skill and artifice complete 
Securely kept him in imperial seat. 
Sly, timid, hesitating, insincere, 
One half his plan was bluff and half was fear. 
With sneers he sought the fame of Washington to dim, 
For British parentage gave British thoughts to him. 
Imperious lord when fronting some poor slave; 
Obsequious, adroit, before a foeman brave. 
His apothegms that fools repeat. 
Drove Wisdom' from her ancient seat. 
Foul conjurings with veils like drifted snow, 
'Ideals high" to screen some purpose low! 
Quick in denial, though naught might hidden be, 
How oft he stood in stark deformity. 
Lust of rule in all his acts is traced. 
Time-honored customs he displaced, 
Traditions olden he effaced; 
With sterling worth he ever clashed, 
'All precedents he smashed." 
With photographic fiend in easy reach 
He never missed a chance to make a speech. 
While flunky cringed and traitor smiled, 
^He wore imperial robes defiled, 
'it made the Bird of Freedom screech 
To hear him preach and preach and preach. 
'The richest President," the scribes declare. 
That ever "by economy and care" 
Rolled out big boodle from the White House lair. 
'How came his wealth?" you ask, "and when?" 
O, question not our mighty men. 
Let brains and books and glowing pen. 
And frugal ways explain it then. 
All former theories be sunk — 
It's written clear in Woodrow's case 
That all that moves the American race 
Is empty bunk — bunk — bunk. 
Hooroosh! O hone! O hone! 

[Written before the great Land Slide. 1 



pinp: hill 



A fleeting vapor is this mortal breath. 

We are soldiers all, marching on to death. 



SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

INIAXIIMILIAX AND CAULOTTA 

[From "Sun Worship Shores." See Prose Addenda.! 

A vision passes o'er my view. 

'Tis of a sweet, ambitious dame 

In home by Austrian billows blue; 

In palace wide of olden fame. 

O'er pathways fair high fortunes fell. 

Gems, gold, a lord who loved her well, 

A mighty name, a flow'ry land; 

All joys that power may command 

Or gold may buy — this lady had. 

The earth — the very skies were clad 

In joy for her — her life was glad. 

The tempter came — not in the guise 

Full often bids fair women fall. 

Misfortune threw no viewless pall 

O'er secret love's unhappy sighs; 

No sin or shame a blemish cast 

Ere Passion's dizzy dream was past. 

But rash Carlotta — happy, free — 

The empress of this land would be. 

Ambition's curse despoiled her mind. 

With haughty zeal, to dangers blind. 

She clutched at Montezuma's crown. 

Though brief the skies wore scarce a frown. 

Came Quaretaro's gloomy day. 

And reason, empire, passed away. 

I see a stately soldier stand 

In face of death, and rifles blaze; 

He falls; his blood pours on the sand. 

Lo! Maximilian's regal days 

Are over in the Aztec land. 

Across the ocean billow dwells 

A maniac — O plaintive sight — 

Who some vague story ceaseless tells. 

Then pauses in mute mental pain, 

And strives to tell it o'er again. 

She cannot tell the tale aright. 

Her mind is but a rayless night. 

No more the queen of old she seems — 

Thus ended poor Carlotta's dreams. 

If we who stormed Atlanta's wall 
Had failed in our fierce plan of strife, 
Carlotta's lord had had his life 
Nor ever seen his empire fall. 
Whene'er we smote a victor blow, 
We shook a throne in Mexico. 
If proud Napoleon's legions bold 
Had lingered at their sovereigns' wills. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 225 

A storm of war had southward rolled; 

The steel that shone on Georgian hills 

Had glittered in the land of gold. 

The shadow of so dread a fray 

Dissolved the Austrian throne away. 

The failure of Napoleon's plan 

Brought all the ruin of Sedan. 

For dauntless Jaurez twine a bay — 

For soldier, patriot and man! • 

How all a nation's glory — shame — 

Concenters in some hero's name. 



COKDOVA OX MP]XICAX SEAS 

Our ship alone is on the deep, 

No mortal vestige sweeps in view. 

No sound is heard to break the sleep 

Of Ocean in most royal hue. 

For sunny and soft purple skies 

Pour luster on a stranger sea 

Where not an isle of Or muz lies, 

Nor balmy gale of Ophir flies. 

Nor fair Cipango's hills arise. 

But all around is mystery. 

The great Atlantis here should be. 

Where now unrolls an ocean sweet, 

A peaceful wave without a bound. 

The clean fresh world that spreads around 

Is worthy of Messiah's feet. 

Here He might pass o'er purple ways. 

And His celestial glory keep; 

Ay, pale the Sun's refulgent blaze. 

And march His angels o'er the deep. 



'•FORGET IT" 

Too much we mar the mind's repose 
By brooding on imaginary woes — 
With heavy thought on ills already past. 
Awav their gloomy memories be cast. 
Let fell Oblivion hide each troublous shade- 
Its horde of dismal recollections fade. 
In life's campaigns disasters will befall, 
Each heart has woes. Misfortune chastens all. 
Full soon forget a sorrow late endured. 
No future peril should the soul appall— 
Departed ills are ills already cured. 
Forget the old, nor hunt for troubles new. 
For worrv kills more men than soldiers do. 



226 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

MESSALINA 

"Roaring politicians in petticoats." — Napoleon. 

Unfortunate dame of an early time, 
I'll weave for you an idle rhyme. 
Though somewhat loose your moral code, 
You made poor choice of your abode. 
In modern era you had been 
^ A mannish girl of the upper-ten 
Who loved her party and the men — 
A campaign chief of much repute, 
Who'd preach the dope that seemed to suit, 
And gather in the golden fruit; 
A politician and a sport, 
A party boss who'd hold the fort. 
And collar swag by hook or crook 
Whene'er the public tree was shook. 
Your playful pranks we'd overlook. 
For vice in Rome of long ago 
\ Is sometimes fair in jest, you know^ 
And partisan pep in lobbies, O. 



STAR OF P^MPIPvE 

A cycle Empire's course has run 
From Orient to set of sun, 
But now the realms of ocean mar 
The power of its guiding star. 

O tropic lands, events impend — 
The breaking of a grander day; 
No more the floods of conquest wend 
O'er northern plains their surge-like way; 
The summer zones, with fruits of gold. 
Allure strong races to their fold. 
O'er Darien hills and peaks afar. 
The glow of that resplendent star 
Now falls like Heaven's own decree. 
And mingled millions soon wall pour 
Along the calm Pacific shore 
To bid colossal empires be. 



COMMANDS TO ME 

With patience of a god, 
And resolution of a fiend. 
Persevere! With utmost force, 
Win or lose, do thy part. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 227 



POLITE AVARFARE 

Down by Atlanta on a battle day, 

Two private soldiers met upon the way. 

One wore a suit of blue and one of gray. 

'It's hot," said :\lr. Blue. "Quite pleasant, though, 
For sleeping out of doors, all in a row, 
Prepared to meet the gentlemanly foe.' 
'But rather warm," replied the one in gray, 
'For sprawling in the sun from day to day, 
To dodge the shells that fall around your way, 
And other admonitions of the tomb. 
Our duty is to fight, sir, I presume." 

'I suppose it is," said Mr. Blue. 

'Are you prepared, just now, to be shot through? 

'O, yes, quite ready, sir," said Mr. Gray. 
'With your permission I will blaze away." 

Thereon, in haste, they had a fusilade, 

And wandered off to bleed some in the shade. 

The southern youth this observation made: 

"Ah! ;\Ir. Blue, allow me to inquire 

Your disturbance from my necessary fire?" 

'Your bullet, sir, went through my diaphragm, 
And gave my spinal column quite a jam," 
The soldier dressed in blue politely said: 
"What has become of my small piece of lead?" 

"It spoiled my rebel uniform, and then 
Fell down into my lower abdomen." 

"If that's the case," the northern soldier said, 
"I think by ev'ning, sir, that you'll be dead. 
To partly mitigate your passing pain. 
I'll say your ball was not discharged in vain, 
For I shall soon be numbered with the slain." 

Then each expressed a most sincere regret 
That he the other man had ever met. 
One wished his powder had been wet. 
The other that his ball had glanced aside. 
And then, with much sincere regret — they died. 



228 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A HOPELESS CASE 

A reprobate, on a rude couch lying, 
Was near his end, and slowly dying. 
The priest arrived, and in much haste 
Prepared to get all sins erased. 

"Your enemies forgive," the good man said. 

"I can't! I can't!" came answer from the bed. 

"O, but you must — your love to every one. 
Quick!' get that noble duty done." 
The culprit turned toward the wall. 
And moaned: "Father, I can't. 1 killed them all. 



THE SIRENS 

An easy smile and oily tongue 

Will win their hearts when you are young. 

But when you wax infirm and old, 

In vain your sweet song will be sung 

Unless you have the ready gold. 

No gentle heart will e'er be won 

Unless your bank account, my son. 

Is heavy with these coins of gold. 

The gold, my son — the ready gold. 



UXDEK A TREE 

Let other men do as they please — 
I'll sprawl out here at idle ease. 
While busy people toil for bread. 
Or gold, I chose to loaf instead. 
What will be done when I am dead. 
And in my little coffin curled? 
As bad as now, or worse instead. 
A weary world will still be whirled. 
Uneasy fellow men will fume; 
Will ponder much in mental gloom; 
Toil, tug, their petty lives consume 
In getting ready for the tomb, 
And then they'll die — to make more r 
In this exaggerated world. 
So idleness is often wise; 
And not to think at all, good sense. 
A Caesar like a vassal dies, 
We soon forget both sad events. 
Enjoy each moment as it flies. 
And worry in the future tense. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 229 

C(JLLMBIA lUVER 

Once I was a free lance — 

I roved where light romance might be, 

From Golden Gate to sunny France, 

From Lake Itasca to the sea; 

From California's balmy shore 

To where the floods of lava pour 

Down Momotombo's hoary side; 

I've sailed o'er seas and oceans wide. 

Seen castles old and ruins wild, 

The royal homes of sovrans dead; 

Green, boundless prairies undeflled 

By tyrant Man's destructive tread. 

On peerless views mine eyes have dwelt, 

But none have seemed so fair to me 

As where the cliffs of granite belt 

Columbia's pathway to the sea. 



A liLEST liEIJEF 

These hapless mortals, worried to death; 

Drudging, stinting, tugging along from day to day, 

Clinging to life to the latest breath; 

Trying to keep grim Death away. 

That brings relief to mortal clay— 

These highly afflicted, miserable things. 

Really think that life is worth it. 

Each to his torture patiently clings, 

Seeking in vain to perpetuate it. 

Compassionate Death will end it all. 

With readiness answer his happy call. 



ANOTHER "DRlVPr 

[1919.1 ^' ^^ 

'Dig up! Dig up! That's what we said. 
The country must be bled. 
Are all God's people dead? 
The Jugo-Slavias must be fed. 
The Ciscowiskoes weep for bread. 
Our cash is gone, our money fled. 
We haven't got a bloody red. 
Armenia's under Famine's tread. 
Dig up! Dig up! That's what we said." 

Hand this advice to Russ or Turk — 
Quit your fighting and go to work. 



no SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY 

A tender parent who discovers that a son 
Is writing rhyme, and has poetical attacks, 
Should take him to the barn, before the day is done. 
And lay him on a beam, and slay him with an ax. 
This advice is based on melancholy facts. 



"YOl "LL NEVER (JET RICH IF YOU DO 
HARD AVORK"' 

A young man stood by the ocean shore. 
And a rueful cast his visage wore. 

"I do not work and I have no coin," 
In a tone of grief at length he said: 

"I will not earn my daily bread. 
I think the great caravan I'll join. 
It seems quite strange that a man like me 
Rlust drown himself in the salty sea; 
Something is wrong in the world, I think, 
When a man must work to eat or drink; 
When every pleasure he must miss 
And a fine young man must come to this. 
But friends, farewell! I'll die before 
I'll ever toil for gold galore. 
'If you do hard work you'll never get rich,' 
My good old father once said to me. 
Now I've come to the very last ditch. 
I'm going to plunge in the salty sea." 

He off with his coat and hung it on 
The outward prong of a withered limb. 
"Vain world adieu, for I'll soon be gone," 
A playful zephyr sighed to him. 

He flung his hat as far as he could. 
His boots displaced, and then his vest. 
"I feel in a sort of plaintive mood; 
In fact, I'm really quite distressed," 
He said — and sat on the sand to rest. 

Quite near at hand was a massive rock 

Which long had borne the ocean shock. 

While viewing it with a mournful eye. 

At its base he saw a cavern dark. 

He cried — "I'll crawl in there, by Jove! to die, 

For I'm much afraid some whale or shark 

My tender loins for a meal might try. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 231 

If the cave contains enough of room, 
It'll make a first-class gentleman's tomb." 

He went forthwith to explore the hole. 
He crawled clear in— 'twas dark as pitch. 
Said he: "This don't look like, upon my soul, 
If you never work that you'll get rich." 

While clawing around for a spot of soil 
On which to shuffle his mortal coil, 
He discovered a box of substance cold. 
And it proved to be cram full of gold. 
A pirate there his booty had stored, 
And the nice young man secured the hoard. 
'Twas an iron box like a big bee hive. 
And a motto bore: "By work we thrive." 

When the young man dragged the old chest out,. 
Its golden treasures made him shout. 
He lives, to-day, in a mansion fine; 
He dines and wines like a lordly Turk, 
His coat-of-arms has the following line— ^^ 
'•You'll never get rich if you do hard work. 



MONTEZUMA 



So INIontezuma met his doom. 
Though bold his race, how vain were slaves 
Of tawny form with weapons poor. 
To famous knights in manhood's bloom. 
Fresh from destruction of the Moor? 
With armor— swords— of Paynim steel— 
The paladins of days of yore- 
Proud chivalry of old Castile; 
With cannons loud as awful storm 
In heavens high, lit round with flame; 
With lighter dreadful arms the same; 
With war steeds fearless of all harm; 
Accoutrements, regalia — grand ; 
High discipline— of cruel hand. 
They were death-angels of the Sun, 
To chasten for some folly done; 
To write the land a bloody page- 
To smite with fierce, relentless rods, 
For impious act of former age. 
'Twas vain to war them— scornful gods 
Heard net laments on every hand. 
Mexitli vanished from his land. 



232 SO\C}S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

thp: common lot 

I contemplate a stormy past 
As idlers view some hoary urn 
Whereift loved ashes once were cast — 
With cold or haughty unconcern. 
What more, alas! have I to learn? 
I\Iuch bitter lore is now revealed. 
Is selfishness Man's only shield? 
A dread reply the years return. 
Some ill severe each heart must bear, 
Some woe disturbs each mortal breast. 
Ah! none have builded hall so fair 
But Sorrow came to be a guest. 
With courage breast Life's ocean tide, 
Xor voice in vain a sad lament. 
A sea of tears moves not aside 
One touch of pain, one lone event. 



"ORouxD— arms:" 

[Atlanta, July 22, 1864.1 

Roraanceful dreams of glory sleep, 
Adieu each martial burst of scorn. 
Trail banners proud we swore to keep. 
Throw down the arms with valor borne; 
Let none in haughty madness weep, 
No man o'er deep dishonor mourn. 
The die is cast! In silence wait 
While foes exult o'er trophies won. 
Like soldiers face the captive's fate. 
Our deeds of war, alas! are done. 
While comrades for the onset close. 
And LTnion arms defiance roar. 
We'll bear the hate of bitter foes, 
And strive on battle fields no more. 



"(H) DOWN IX HISTOKY" 

[1920.1 
Our merchant marine is in eclipse 
With 1300 rotten ships. 
While the Idiots struggle on, 
Another four billion bucks are gone. 
Let this mystery 
"Go down in history." 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 233 

DEATH OF (;ENP:PvAL McPHERSOX 

Happy are they who die in their youth, when their renown 
around them. — Ossian. 

When cannon round Atlanta roared, 
The soldiers viewed, with silent grief, 
McPherson slain. A gentler chief 
Ne'er bravely wore unsullied sword. 
He fell in manhood's utmost bloom, 
And even foes deplored his doom. 
Also there Avas a lady pale 
Concealed a blow of mortal pain. 
Within a far Ohio vale 
She saw the weary seasons wane, 
Nor had consolement of their gloom, 
Since joys of life, all pleasures gay, 
Youth's brilliant hopes, forever lay 
Within our gentle hero's tomb. 
When war prevails, IMan's haughty part 
Is where proud Glory leads her host. 
War's dart is hurled at Woman's heart. 
Though famous fields be won or lost, 
In dread she waits — to wail in vain 
O'er husband, son or lover slain. 



MESIAXICO AMERIKANISKI 

'Walk into my parlor." said the spider to the fly. 

Who sowed destructive tares 

For trustful friend or puzzled foe? 

Who peddled strange political wares 

From torrid sea to Russian snow? 

Who supped with kings, and scowled at folks below? 

Who muddled up all human affairs 

From Turkish climes .to Mexico? 

Tangling, twisting, meddling Woodrow :\lesianico. 



SECESSION OEDIXANCE OF :\rAXTLA 

What Dewey did in Manila Bay 
Was a wicked thing that's passed away. 
It don't accord with our Xew Day. 
High-minded folks have a better plan. 
They'll give these isles, with much elan, 
To good King George's friend, Japan. 
Columbia now this coast resigns. 
Down with the flag in the Philippines! 



23+ SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

OLOxois thp: buccaneer 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 

Here Olonois' wild fame is heard, 

Whose fierce career wanes to a word. 

He sleeps in peace beside the wave 

Whereon once rede his fleets of war, 

And murmuring above his grave 

Are winds that bore his ships afar. 

His ocean isle and last retreat 

Is wandered o'er by stranger feet. 

No guns o'ersweep a foamy bay 

Where once his fleet of cruisers lay; 

No armed clans obey his call, 

Nor spoils of war bestrew the earth. 

On yonder beach no wild notes fall 

Of battle or of lawless mirth. 

The bivouac, the tents, are gone; 

The sheen of steel, the lowly slave, 

The fallen form of captive brave. 

The chief who led wild outlaws on. 

O'er many a fated Spanish town 

His gloomy corsair banners waved. 

He tore St. Jago's colors down — 

He plundered, slaughtered and enslaved. 

Fast fell the heavy cannon peal. 

The pistol shot and ring of steel. 

Walls crumbled from explosive shell. 

And flames leapt forth where missiles fell. 

The soldier's cry-, the virgin's prayer. 

Were borne in vain on sultry air. 

Down every coast he held his way 

Till millions fell his lawless prey. 

All scenes of old for aye are gone; 

Adventures cease at Empire's dawn. 

In soil remote or ocean wave 

Have disappeared his pirates brave. 

He lives alone in old romance. 

Or ballads of provencal France. 

As vision fair the eye sweeps in 

It is as though he ne'er had been. 

Well may the cynic in his mood. 
Scoff o'er each hero's hardihood — 
Ay, moralize, in lofty gloom, 
AJDOve the great Pizarro's tomb. 
Who passed his days in martial toil. 
To gather gold from human pain; 
He drew a cruel sword to spoil — 
To mar, to desolate, to stain. 
Sun-worship shores he gave to tears, 
He reared a throne on human woe; 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 235 

The full fruition of his years — 

The substance of his gaudy show — 

Is garnered in a silent cell. 

His name is but a breath of air. 

Upon a land wide ruin fell, 

In arms he died, his dust is there. 

On shores we view Fame's echoes tell. 

In empire's chase, (by Albion's guile), 

The filibuster Walker fell— 

Whose arms prevailed for one brief while. 

In palace hall or Isthmian glen, , 

O'er passions of ambitious men 

Does Glory weave a subtle spell. 

And yet her voice is but a knell, 

A siren sound, illusive breath. 

That rises from Oblivion's grave 

To fire the souls of thoughtless brave. 

And crown their fearless toils with death. 



HIGHLANDS OF THE HUDSON 

Primeval groves adorn each lofty height 

Where Wealth enthrones in fair and stately seats, 

And millionaires, intrenched in golden might, 

Rest idly in magnificent retreats. 

Yon flood enshrines bold Hudson's name, 

Who sailed o'er stranger seas through perils wild; 

These heights recall a fallen hero's shame — 

A manly soldier's bright renown defiled. < 

'Twas here unhappy Arnold sold 

His martial honor for Britannia's gold. 

The fame he bravely won at bloody cost — 

By dauntless feats of arms — in shame he lost. 

Revere the valor of his better time. 

Lament his fall, and curse his traitor crime. 



THE LANDSLIDE 

[November 2, 1920.1 

A solemn Referendum — 

Then the League of Blood 
Dropped from the zenith 

With a dull, heavy thud. 
The Egotist? The Autocrat? 

O where was he? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With speeches filled the fishy s 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



AXDEPvSOXVILLE 

[I was a prisoner in Andersonville during the period of 
the greatest mortality there. In a debate in the United 
States Senate, some years after the Civil War, this poem 
of mine was quoted entire by Hon. James G. Blaine. 1 

They were men no more! 

Brutalized by Hunger's gnawing fangs. 

They swarmed on the foul earth like vermin, 

Or sunk upon their slimy beds and died, 

And rotten where they fell — corruption bred 

A pestilence, and to escape it. 

Some burrowed in the earth like beasts. 

And by the treacherous sands were buried. 

Diseases of all strangest forms prevailed. 

Nor art nor surgery was there to bar 

Their gorgon growth; all subtle taints that lurk 

Within the richest and the purest blood. 

Were fanned to intense and vengeful being, 

And devoured the lean and livid flesh. 

The seeds of awful scrofulas wei-e nursed 

To virulent life; gangrene, cancer, all plagues 

That rankly fester in decaying flesh. 

Raged unchecked; whole limbs became discolored, 

And swollen to the point of bursting; 

Teeth dropped out, and eyes from their sockets ran; 

Through cheeks and throats great ulcers eat their way, 

And as the stricken ones unheeded moaned. 

Panting beneath a most merciless sun. 

The vile worms crawled up from the teeming ground. 

And fed on them, not waiting for death. 

Clear and shrill within the echoing wood 
Pealed the hunter's horn, and the bloodhound's bay 
Reached the far fugitive's ear ominous, 
T(-iiible, paling his haggard cheek, 
\\ reathing with deadly pallor his sad liir; 
Freezing the coursing blood within his veins. 
Fiercely upon his trail the hellish dogs 
Unerring sped, shrieking for their human prey. 
Lo! when he fainting fell, with dripping jaws 
They tore God's image from his parted bones. 

All were malevolent and pitiless — 

Their hearts were changed to stone and in their breasts 

Human feelings were quite extinguished. 

They gloated on each other's- misery; 

And when the delirious spake of home, 

They laughed horribly, and jested of the grave. 

And with oaths and sarcastic mockery 

Tortured and taunted the dying, as though 

Death were the mere incident of an hour. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

Arch fiends from deepest regions of the damned. 

Exultant might have stood amid it all — 

Ay, deemed themselves in Hades' drearest shades. 



THE GEISHA GIKLS 

A gray-haired sailor told me once 
That he had seen all foreign lands 
From where the sun straight o'er you stands 
To where it hides itself for months. 

'Me by," he said, "take me advice; 

Go make yer home in fair Japan. 

Ye'U see no snow or bloody ice, 

But, dem me eyes, the gels are nice — 

Ay, fine enough for any man. 

Ye'll buy 'em there at any price, 

They'll fatten on a bowl o' rice. 

An' treat the darlin's well, ye know — 

Y'e'll have their hearts jist in a trice. 

Ah! with a dozen maids or so 

'Tis heaven by the Inland Sea. 

'Tis sound advice ye'U get of me." 



ONLY A DREAM 

Here now we rest, O love, at last 
Within this home our hands have reared; 
Adieu to bleak Misfortune's blast. 
And ev'ry ill our hearts have feared; 
Within this home by toil endeared — 
This home we longed for, won at last — 
Shall we not joy we persevered? 
Though low its roof, its site obscure, 
For grander things we do not pine. 
While its rude fabric shall endure, 
Love's angels keep its altar pure 
As they would keep some mighty shrine, 
And guard thy steps from ev'ry lure, 
As thou, O love, must watch o'er mine. 



UNDER THE BLACK FLAG 

His goal is lost whose heart in combat quails. 
Awake! The world abhors a man who fails. 



238 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

OVEKLANI) BY KAIL 

[1874.1 

Through a desert to a throne, 
Rode iMazeppa on his steed. 
We fly on with wilder speed 
O'er weary deserts, bleak and lone; 
Through everlasting hills of stone 
That lure the nervous hand of greed; 
Through wondrous climes of every zone, 
With rills that far off fountains feed. 
Whose restless, crystal waters leap 
Through awful canyons, dread and deep, 
Where cloud-bursts gather, dark and dun; 
Where weird, appalling shadows creep, 
And strange, resounding echoes sleep 
Till downward falls the desert sun. 
We dash on where, one by one. 
Vast ridges rise to meet the skies, 
And mock at tasks by mortals done; 
Their soaring peaks confront the breeze. 
And wave their plumes of mighty trees 
In twilight gray, as if to say: 
"What are the Pyramids to these?" 
Wide valleys spread in sunset red 
With hidden promise of their soil; 
They welcome hands of patient toil. 
And proffer gifts of grander spoil 
Than filled the Spanish argosies. 
Hemmed in by mountains blue and tall, 
Broad lakes expand from land to land. 
Where shining shafts of sunbeams fall; 
Rich fleets will ride their foamy tide 
In golden eras yet to come. 
And Grandeur bid her barges float. 
And Pleasure sound her joyous note 
Where now the limpid floods are dumb. 



APvULLA 

The fellow's dead— it's just as well. 
They've planted him in yonder dell. 
A crown on high he failed to earn. 
His future lot they fain would learn. 
They wonder if he's gone to Hell 
To roast and toast and always burn. 
One fact the books of Nature tell. 
He's found a place of long sojourn- 
Gone to the Land Of No Return. 




WALKER THE FILIBUSTER 

President of the Republic of Sonora, Mexico; General of the American fili- 
busters in Nicaragua; General of the Army of Nicaragua; President of 
Nicaragua. This picture is a reproduction of a daguerreotype taken at 
Mobile, Alabama, just before he sailed on his fatal expedition to Hon- 
duras. He was executed on the 25th of September, 1860. 

Walker invaded Honduras with an insufficient force; a shipwreck deprived 
him of reinforcements; his native allies feared to act. He then retreated 
along the ocean shore from Truxillo. A British war vessel pursued, over- 
took him, and landed marines. He surrendered on condition that he and 
his men should be taken to New Orleans. Concerning himself the agree- 
ment was violated. He was handed over to the authorities of Honduras, 
and his execution followed almost immediately. He met his fate before 
a firing party. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 239 

THE FILIBUSTER'S MEMORY 

We wandered by the golden wheat 
Thar waved beneath a summer wind — 
In thoughtful reveries repined. 
Her pure lips blushed emotions sweet, 
Or breathed in balmy whispers kind. 
From auburn hair to dainty feet, 
Her sylph-like beauty was complete- 
Fair casket of a gentle mind. 

In splendor shone her hazel eyes. 
That glowed with love not over wise, 

Revealing thoughts she did not speak. 

Too well 1 saw wiiat noble prize 

Was gen'rous gift of Fortune wise; 

The rose's bloom was on her cheek. 

How fair she seemed that summer's day. 

We saw the white clouds float away 

Like snowy islands drifting through 

An austral sea of tender blue. 

Their outlines o'er us threw a shade; 

rnscared the birds above us flew, 

The drowsy winds around us played. 

She spoke of love, of happy years— 

I gazed afar with gloomy frown. 

Then swift I gloried in renown. 

She smiled amid a mist of tears. 
•'When you have won your lofty goal,"^ 

She sweetly craved, "come back to me." 

I coldly said— "It cannot be," 

And in her eyes I saw her soul. 

The years have passed— as yet obscure 
I follow^ Glory's fatal star. 

Her loveliness has grown mature, 

Yet waits she like a vestal pure 

Where wide her golden wheat fields are. 



OUR BROTHER MAX 

Poor himself, he counts his sorrows o'er; 
For sympathy makes low demand. 
And, grateful to some friendly hand, 
Receives his food at any door. 
But let him rise on Fortune's tide. 
How soon he vaunts with empty pride. 
And. all forgot his sorrows o'er, 
He rudely deals with fellows poor. 
Old son. you need the whip of Scorn. 
You were not to the manor born. 



240 SO\GS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

GAli FIELD 

Honor, usefulness, his country's weal — 
These were his noble aims, and if he fell 
When lofty purposes were but conceived, 
Columbia hailed his manly motive true. 
And cast her chaplets on his martyr grave. 
Ohio's woodlands sent him forth — 
In toil, in penury, he gathered lore; 
Our fields of war were honored by his tread. 
His eloquence in stately forums rang. 
The world took notice when he bleeding fell. 
He sleeps in peace, the turf above him dewed 
By tears a sorrowing nation sheds. 
Life is not much at most, but all it holds 
Is in the striving for substantial good. 
With after sense of duty well performed. 
Who utters Garfield's name must follow him. 
And blest is he whose purpose is well wrought, 
When falls the stern command to quit the field. 



THE POOIJ MAWS COMFORT (K)NE 

[See Prose Addenda.] 

His comfort through uncounted years 
Of troubles, trials, toils and tears — 
That braced him up and lured him on — 
His only comfort now is gone. 
He knew that when he came to die. 
He'd have a mansion in the sky. 
Whereas, since foolish Father Adam fell, 
aiost other folks have gone to Hell. 
This pleasant thought of days of yore 
The people now accept no more. 
The gruesome tale of lakes of fire 
That did old Dante's muse inspire. 
Is out of date and gone to pot. 
For modern folks believe it not. 
Newspaper, preacher, infidel. 
Have wiped the poor man's joy away. 
There are no devils, demons, imps estray. 
And now, alas! there is no Hell. 



RODEO 

INtany a liorse (equine disaster! ) 

Has better sense than his brutal master. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 241 

8AX FUAXCISCO LINES 

Affairs with me have gone quite wroiig, 

My only notes are notes of song. "" 

Upon the whole Pacific Slope 

My only bank account is hope. 

Like Cassio — unhappy wight — 

I ascertain, much to my cost, 

And not at all to my delight. 

My reputation has been lost. 

It floated off as I went down, 

It left me shipwrecked on the town. 

The sympathy I now command 

I easily can understand. 

But 'tis not fitted to allay 

The headache on repentance day. 

'Go hang yourself — jump in the Bay," 

Is pretty much what people say. 

Or thus they talk: "You've had your chance. 

Your tumble's come; for those who dance 

The music bill anon must pay." 

Job had friends as kind as they. 

Sometimes I sigh, sometimes I think. 

Sometimes I take a quiet drink • 

Upon the principle — that's right — 

The canine's hair will cure the bite. 

I'm blanked and dashed if I can tell 

What to go at, what next to do. 

The Poor House looms in easy view. 

I wish gin-mills were all in Hell, 

Distilleries, and all who sell 

The "juice of snake" and "mountain dew." 

I'm standing on Destruction's brink; 
The dizzy prospect makes me shrink. 
O what's the use to whine and blink. 
And brood this way, or try to think? 
Let's go and have another drink. 
And be contented, calm and bold. 
Some day we'll have a ton of gold. 
Drink what we please, have royal times. 
And spend our dollars and our dimes 
Just as we please, nor care a clam. 
So people pay to read our rhymes. 
How often we go on a "jam." 
The step is wise, upon my soul — 
Here goes to have another bowl. 



IX MILLEN STOCKADE 

If Courage, Fortitude, our steps attend, 
There thrives no woe that will not end. 



242 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE SCIENTIFIC MIXER MAX 

O, I delight 
In rhodonite 
And malachite— 
In turmaline; 
In bonanza blocks 
Of metalliferous rocks; 
In alabaster pale 
And argellaceous shale, 
And argentiferous galena. 
O have you ever seen a 
Sternbergite? 
You have, I ween. 
And sporadic crystals of augite, 
Lencite. andecite and porphyrite, 
Zinc-blende, magnesiu'm. 
Copper-glance and sodium, 
Lava billows miocene, 
Nephelene and scheeletine 
And microcrystalline, 
Chrisolite and onyx 
And other kinds of chronics — 
^ The curious things we glean 
From the subterranean scene 
Of the geological entrails of Nevada. 

Ever touch, at times between, 

Such tender booze as gasoline, 

Pisco, pulque, valley-tan or kerosene? 

To some extent, I ween, 

To aid the masculine machine. 

Far down in the subterranean scene 

Of the geological entrails of Nevada, 

With gold, they tell, 

Thicker than fiddlers in Hell. 

With everything in soak. 

Ever go broke? 

Without a cent to drink on. 

To eat or smoke or think on? 

It's mean — yes, it's mean — ^ 

To be without the long green, 

The sheckels, pistoles, doubloons, 

And all that. 

Any fellow bellows "No!" 

Is talking through his hat. 

The bard of Avon says 

Put money in thy purse. 

Without it, life's a curse. 

Or something worse. 

A coin in need's 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 243 

A coin indeed. 

It brings the friends, the feed. 

In any crowd you take the lead. 

Therefore 

Get ore, 

The quartz, the dust — 

The metal people trust — 

In veins of red or green, 

Blue, black, gray or submarine ; 

Anything that's worth a bean. 

Of the interminable things we glean 

From the risky subterranean scene 

Of the geological entrails of Nevada. 

O fair to the sight 

Is stromerite 

And hematite 

And recementations; 

Ne'er show disdain 

Of gentle gain 

From a true fissure vein, 

Or have remorse 

To ascertain 

You have to glide 

Or take a ride 

On a porphyry horse. 

what a shock 

To find you've struck bed rock! 

To make a bore 

That's empty of auriferous ore! 

1 think 

That life is vain 

Without the chink. 

The rhino, spelter, dust, 

The yellow boys, the rocks, 

The kind of stuff that talks 

Among the upper crust. 

He plays a loss 

Who says that gold is only dross; 

That coin is trash. 

He's talking brash, 

For when a man is out of cai^h. 

It's root, porcine, or go to smash, 

In argentiferous Nevada. 



ALEXANDER 



He wept for other worlds — so the legend ran. 
This world has ne'er been conquered by one man, 
And conquer it no mortal ever can. 



244 SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE HUMAN H()(f 

It is no propaganda move 

To say the pig-stye hog lias qualities 

Of which we teally must approve. 

A few good points he has are these: 

He dines in public or in solitude, 

And if he eats with motions rude 

He knows his case is understood. 

He ne'er complains about his food, 

But scoffs the rough stuff with the good. 

He often takes a bath — in mud — 

To cool his over-heated blood. 

He's sociable, obedient and true. 

And has his virtues not a few. 

In various ways we find that he will do. 

The Human Hog — he makes us brawl. 
From San Francisco to St. Paul 
The people hate him — one and all. 
The mangy beast, the low jackal, 
He has no worthy traits at all. 



WASTED EEEOirrs 

Life is all too brief for joy. 

It is too brief for hate. 

He wastes it who consumes his fleeting years 

In petty broils, in feuds and enmities. 

That all must vanish with his dying breath. 



TIXr)ECX)RATED 

The Cross of War he failed to win. 
No Legion of Honor is on his breast. 
He only marched in hellish din, 
And did his bit just like the rest. 
At any place he might have died. 
No sudden deed 'mid smoke and flame 
Filled all Europe with his fame. 
He hurried on with headlong stride. 
But lucky chances passed aside. 
'Twas horror grim where'er he went, 
Yet still he fought with stern intent. 
His fellows won — he with the rest. 
Although no badge is on his breast 
We hail him hero, soldier, knight — 
True champion in Freedom's fight. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 245 

tup: i)uea:\is of thp: starving 

[Andersonville. See Prose Addenda.] 
Fitful sleep was boon of deep exhaustion, 
And, like a trance brought on by subtle drugs, 
Teemed with strange, voluptuous fancies. 
No more a famished wretch the dreamer seemed, 
Xo more the bitter taunts of heartless foes 
Set baffled hatred rankling in his soul 
Hopeless of day when vengeance might be won; 
But, like an oriental king, he trod 
The halls of gorgeous palaces — spacious. 
Fantastic and unreal, yet wherein 
Were banquets spread of such luxurious state 
The gods from high Olympus might have come 
To gorge like heedless wantons. 
Anon he lolled on beds of dying flowers. 
Whose odors through his drunken senses stole 
Like soothing and sensuous narcotics, 
And music swelled and waned upon the air. 
And around him thronged more beauteous nymphs 
Than e'er were bred on famed Clrcassia's hills, 
Laden with luscious fruits from many lands. 
But when at length in indolence he smiled, 
And reached his languid hand to pluck and eat, 
The vision vanished. He woke to rave 
With growing madness — to beat his breast. 
Or from his crown to rend the matted hair. 
Or, like a demon, to yell till vales 
And silent, solemn woods gave back reply. 



KUIXS OF CM)PAX 

What empire here was swept from earth? 
What seat of Power — Art sublime? 
These withered stones are gray with time, 
And no man knows, no annals tell. 
What awful fate here once befell. 
Too much we sound our age's worth — 
Xot now the arts are having birth. 
Civilization oft hath fled from Earth. 



HIS xp:xt achievemext 

This busy fellow. Wan, has just begun 
To find his greatest task is still undone — 
To get his heat and light from yonder Sun 
Ere oil and coal and gas are gone. 
A mighty theme for thoughts to center on. 



246 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

AX OLD TIMER 

There was an old man — and so forth; 
Long time he had his habitation here. 
But seldom was his mood to go forth 
In quest of joy or social cheer. 
He lived alone with mien austere, 
And pondered long, with empty stare, 
To balance heavy thoughts with care. 
He sighed at times, with look severe, 
Like to a fellow in despair. 

"Sit down, old pard — I'm not inclined to quiz. 
I cannot tell you where he is. 
I'm net apprised to that extent. 
Upon a journey long he went — 
LTpon an expedition stern. 
Not expecting to return. 
I knew him well. He's gone away, 
But where he went I cannot say. 
If plainer word must now be said. 
Your friend's non est — in fact, he's dead. 



THE strax(;ek 

O. be busy! 
Who is he? 
What is he? 
Which is he? 
When is he? 
Where is he? 
How is he? 
Is he? Is he? Is he' 
They all got busy. 



151 AS OF PR I EXE 

Wise men are few; bad men and fools innumerable, especi- 
ally fools. Most men are honest, if closely watched.— Bias 
the Cynic. 

Men's many faults the mind distress; 
One virtue, anyhow, they all possess. 
, When some to sins and follies go, 

; They keep their records white as snow, 

And some have reputations blotched, 
But still it's comfort, boys, to know 
That most are honest when they're closely watched. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 247 



A DISCONTENTED MINER 

"Man getteth himself riches, and linoweth not 
who shall gather them." 

'That's quite a mine," I said. "O, yes, me son," 

The knight of pick and shovel made reply, 

'But what's the use of us in diggin' ore? 

We're only workin' fer some furrin Jewk. 

It's reel discouragin' — I swear it is. 

There's heaps o' ore comes out o* that 'ere mine. 

We git our pay all right— Slumgullion pays. 

An' thinks he's diggin' ore to use hisself — 

But then he ain't. When all the ore is out, 

Some sneakin' Jewk without a cursed cent, 

As poor as any tramp ye ever see. 

Will carom on Slumgullion's pile, 

An' pack it off to Yurrupean lands. 

An' spend it all upon his beastly self. 

Ye see, Slumgullion's got a boun.cin' gal. 

An' pooty soon, she'll have to have a man, 

An'^in course — she'll have to have a Jewk. 

She'll give her body, brains, and daddy's coin 

To some boozy, worthless, homeless refugee 

Who's got a furrin title to his name. 

That's got to be the style out here, me son. 

They call the rich folks parvenews, I hear. 

Well, all our parvenews, to be in style. 

Must hitch to Yurrupean pauper Jewks. 

The wimmin yowl around about their rights. 

An' want to vote an' put on pantaloons. 

Why don't they teach the pullets, then, some sense 

An' keep these furrin Jewks from packin' off our coin? 

'Taint no use to dig up ore, unless the gals 

Is kept away from all these pauper Jewks. 

Every Jill must have her Jack, 

An' every parvenew her pauper Jewk." 



NEAR THE SHOALS 

A mellow fruit upon a tempting tree. 
Full ripened for a lawless hand; 
A stately bark on a placid sea. 
Drifting on the rocks and sand; 
A chafing steed on the desert free. 
Neighing its rider with loud command. 
A blown, unrivalled rose to be 
Wasting on the breezes bland! 
A diamond on a barren waste. 
Luring the beams of a tell-tale sun! 
A nectar cup for the gods to taste! 
A human soul to be undone. 



SON(}S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A (/OXFEDKRATE IXFERXO 

[See Prose Addenda.] 

I dreamed that I was free — I tied 
Through forests wild, o'er leaves and verdure dead; 
Through jungles dense, o'er many a stony mound; 
O'er fallen trees and all that might impede 
A reckless and impasssioned speed. 
And far away I heard the sound 
Of bugle horns, the bay of hound, 
And hoof notes of a cavalcade 
That thundered through the midnight shade. 
Cries I heard, yells, shots, bullets near. 
Still on I rushed with hope and fear, 
At last to brave the swollen breast 
Of river wide; its tides I pressed. 
And strove with floods, with currents strong, 
That whirled me swift and far along. 
I gained a shadowy further shore. 
New i)erils came in woodlands hoar- 
Attack of beasts that barred my way 
Where formless, threatn'ing things uncanny lay; 
Where loathsome serpents coiled, awaiting prey. 
1 bore with famine, danger, tempest, rain. 
Toil, exhaustion, hopelessness and pain 
Till woods and wastes and foes were gone. 
With fierce intent I hurried on — 
In frenzy fled. From solitary height 
There burst upon my dazzled sight 
A city gorgeous on a plain below. 
It shimmered in the sunshine's glow. 
And o'er each pinnacle and crest. 
Defiant and in proud unrest. 
Our Nation's banner waved, saluting me. 
I leaiied with joy. Lo! safe I was and free, 
Serenest of all sons of men. 
And then I woke — in dread captivity again. 

Rejoice, O men who wander free 
On prairie plain or desert flood. 
In wilderness of boundless wood, 
On billows of the stormy sea. 
How chafes the spirit to despair 
To see the birds careen in air. 
Delirious with unbounded flight. 
Sad Fancy plies her task too well. 
The very fire-flies of the night 
Float swift and far on airy plane, 
While here must we in lameness dwell 
In solemn scenes of misery and pain 
That well might glad a demon's brain. 
Yet hosts advance in fierce array 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

To break these gloomy walls away. 
Conflagration then! Flames arise 
To smoky dome of southern skies! 
And Vengeance give its wild command 
Across a burning and a wasted land. 



AT THE ALTAK 



Though scarcely false and yet not true, 

JNIay never woe confound thee; 
Content upon thy footsteps wait, 

And every joy surround thee; 
Sincerest friends be ever near, 

Their tender lips caress thee, 
And every weal that mortals know 

Be ever nigh to bless thee; 
As noble thoughts and gracious aims 

In worthy deeds employ thee. 
May never sad or secret fear 

With somber shade annoy thee. 
May Wealth strew on thy pathway fair 

Its pleasures without number. 
And restless thoughts of other days 

In ceaseless quiet slumber. 
O, Peace weave round thy happy home 

A cordon for thy blessing, 
And kindly words and gentle smiles. 

Of truest love confessing. 
Be ever thine to make of life 

A journey strewn with roses, 
Xor ever Sorrow teach thee where 

A single grief reposes. 



THE THIX(iS WE DIDXT DO 

What noble deeds they were — how generous and true! 
'Tis joy to sit at grim Gehenna's brink 
And ponder long, and sweetly think 
Of blessed deeds we had the heart to do. 
******* 

Alas! we meditate with visage meek. 

Or sigh in vain, or in confusion seek 

Some vile excuse to cool a burning cheek. 

Old age brings many things to rue. 

The worst are these — the deeds we didn't do. 

Then act in time — 'twill much avail 

To keep Nemesis off your trail. 



250 SON OS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



DAN KICK 

"Though countless plaudits fall to me, 
And bring me coin and great renown," 
Observed Dan Rice, the famous circus clown, 

"The funniest things appear to be 
Smart-eliicks from a country town." 



"Kixc; OF tp:rk()us- 

Death's a friend — he's not a foe. 
He reaches out his kindly hand 
To worn-out wreck of Sorrow's band. 
And lifts him from a world of woe. 



ALMA(JR()-S MAIK^H OX CIIII.K 

Conquestadors and famous leaders bold, 

Far south of us. along an ocean shore, 

There is an empire with its wealth untold. 

Peru no more affords exhaustless gold. 

Invade this new land, its treasures to explore. 

The tales are marvelous of scenes that wait. 

In cities vast unheard of splendors reign. 

A thousand lords reside in royal state 

Who fear the swords and chivalry of Spain. 

Huge palace walls have domes of native gold ; 

Red, lustrous gems their heathen altars hold. 

Such are the wondrous tales by rumor told. 

These fanes alone such massive spoil contain. 

They'll dwarf the Inca's wealth an hundred fold. 

In vales voluptuous fair women dwell — 

A pen inspired would paint their charms in vain — 

More beautiful than those the Moslems tell 

Do comfort souls on Aidenn's joyous plain. 

They deem you scions of celestial Bel — 

Their dark eyes glow with love's delicious pain. 

All scenes invite with flow'ry, happy slopes; 

With foamy streams where fadeless youth is found, 

Green olive groves and luscious fruits abound. 

Give wildest reign to Fancy's glowing hopes — 

We'll war for gold upon enchanted ground. 

Pure mountain streams How on o'er precious ore, 

The ocean shores all gleam with dust of gold. 

Such are the wondrous tales by rumor told. 

On, cavaliers, the march will soon be o'er — 

Invade this new land, its treasures to explore. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 251 

EL MOXTECITO 

The languor of the South is in the air — 

A joyous indolence of chosen climes. 

Earth has resemblance of a garden fair. 

As poets image of the golden times. 

In lovely vales perennial roses bloom; 

The drowsy gales move heavy with perfume. 

Through scenes around low strains of sorrow steal. 

To soft guitar is plaintive carol sung. 

The song is in the gentle Spanish tongue — 

Some sweet love melody of old Castile. 

Where vision falls romanceful views expand, 

The wooded hills or placid wave appear. 

Why tarried not sea-worn Cabrillo here, 

Or stern Portala with his war-like band? 

A flow'ry, stormless and Elysian spot, 

It wooes no toiler wan with solemn thought. 

But idlers gay, whose worldly wars are done — 

Whose hopes are withered or whose crowns are won. 

El Montecito! by thy summer seas 

A rose-leaf Sybarite might lounge at ease. 



MERMEXTAU 



Between low green ambrosial shores 

A still stream winds to the Mexic seas. 

An .T.olian symphony pours 

On pinions of an odorous breeze 

Adown long aisles of towering trees. 

The cypress and pine their boughs entwine, 

With their trailing plumes of Spanish moss. 

O'er the amber tides that flow like wine. 

Where dim the beams of the great Sun shine. 

Their hoary branches are stretched across. 

The mocking-bird and the nightingale. 

They ravish the air with frenzied strain. 

Hark to the dove's melodious wail. 

The field-lark soars with its pure refrain, 

And the waters lave the lilies pale 

That swoon with breath of a southern gale, 

Then quiver like maidens' hearts in pain. 

Flow on, O stream, through the woodlands wide, 

Nor care, elsewhere, how the fierce Sun glows. 

How glorious dreams are cast aside 

As fall the leaves of yon yellow rose. 

The lotus that blooms o'er the limpid tide 

Is emblem of my spirit's repose. 

O, calm as the deep cold waters glide. 

My desolate years move to their close. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



THE AinilOR'S EPn AIMI 

In scene remote he passed away. 
At writing rhyme he was no slouch, 
But much he wrote, 'tis sad to say. 
Reads like the ravings of a grouch. 
This world is rough and life is tough. 
But fight the ugly battle through. 
Recall the words: "Lay on, Macduff, 
And damned be he who cries. Enough!" 
Thus war the noisy skirmish through. 
Be kindly, generous and true. 
And give each brother man his due. 
Though oft of Fortune's baubles cheated, 
Who fights to death is undefeated. 



ISTHMrs OF DAKIEX 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."! 
Here once the fleets of Morgan sailed. 
With homeless corsairs from afar; 
Fair cities o'er disaster wailed. 
They rued relentless hand of war. 
Past all the shores of Colon's land 
The rover came in quest of gold; 
To ravage coast or castle old. 
To i)lunder with remorseless hand. 
His fleets of war, his pomps, are past; 
He fills a nameless grave at last; 
His empire wide has ceased to be; 
He lives in story, wild romance, 
In annals of strange feats of chance — 
Where once he roved the seas are free. 
A common corsair men abhor. 
But when he wears a Caesar's crown, 
And slays mankind in useless war, 
And hurls the thrones of rivals down — 
Despoils the world at one fell sweep. 
And ruin leaves to after times. 
The wrath of Heaven seems to sleep. 
And adulations gild his crimes. 
The scenes have changed — on sunny main 
.\o buccaneers explore for gain; 
Those knights of fortune sail no more. 
The haughty Spaniard's reign is past. 
No clouds of war the seas o'ercast; 
Where castle rose the forest waves. 
And where Wealth's halls were plashed with gore- 
Where Mars moved with his mien of yore, 
Now Venus rules her sylvan slaves. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

A COUNTRY HOTEL 

Telephone fiends'. 

Yowling and howling about the crops; 

Squalling and drawling, 

Over and under, 

In voices of thunder, 

About hosses and oats and cawn. 

Calling up "central" 

Long before dawn 

To yowl and howl 

Of cattle and hosses and cawn, 

And the goldurn middle men 

That rob the honest farmer. 



TO HON. ROBERT OULD 

[It was almost impossible to send a letter from Anderson- 
ville. The prison rule was to write in brief, leave letter un- 
sealed, and put on a Confederate and a United States postage 
stamp. The letters went to headquarters in batches, and 
about one in a hundred was mailed. I wrote the .first nine 
lines of this rhyme on the envelope, and the letter reached 
my mother. Mr. Ould filled the idle office of Confederate 
Commissioner of Exchange. The exchange of prisoners had 
been abolished.] 

Mr. Ould: Please pass this letter through 
And oblige a poor devil dressed in blue. 
Who never did a bit of harm to you. 
Please pass it through to the Yankee lines 
To a mother dear who sadly pines, 
Blind to each surrounding joy, 
To hear from her lost and wayw^ard boy. 
As sure as war in Dixie reigns 
She will bless you for your pains. 

The foeman chief, to Nature's promptings true. 
Perused the lines and sent the letter through. 



•EVERYBODY HAVE SOiAH:THINCT' 

"Brandy for heroes."— Lo7yZ Nelson. 

When loud among the lads you shout. 
Be careful, pard, what you're about. 
You'll lose your cash without a doubt. 
Then find yourself all down and out. 
The surest way to shun a fall 
Is not to touch the stuff at all. 



254 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

BOKX TO MLSFORTUXE 

A fair-haired child was left to bear 
The burden of another's wrong; 
To feel how well the world can spare 
When boldly bearded by the strong — 
And yet how soon it learns to speak 
When Virtue bids it crush the weak. 
******* 

Her lover fled when vengeance burst, 
And she was driven forth accurst — 
A timid girl, cast off in scorn, 
To wander lone on paths forlorn; 
To be the by-word of the horde 
That gloat on honor unrestored, 
And beauty tarnished in its bloom. 
Though base themselves as wantons vile, 
That swiftly scent the trail of guile, 
To hound the erring to their doom. 
Yet deem they serve their God the while. 
Above her dust no mourner weeps — 
Not even a stone shows where she sleeps. 



NATAL IJEVPnnE 

Few ponder on a vanished year 
Nor substance find for solemn thought; 
Nor muse upon a shadow drear 
Not all by cruel chances brought. 
Alas! it is the common lot. 
How oft we view a selfish deed 
That bore its needless fruit of woe; 
Ah! many hearts in silence bleed 
When none beside the sorrow know. 
Though mutely is the burden borne — 
Not always by decree of Fate — 
How blest are they who secret mourn, 
Nor mourn, alas! when all too late. 
This life is but a scene of war; 
Each new-born year a stranger field. 
Woo not the glow of Fortune's star, 
I'nless to stern endeavor steeled. 
Abandon arms at one defeat? 
And cpase to wage a dauntless fray? 
Renew the chase with eager feet, 
Achieve the goal and win the day! 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

RALEIGH AND QUEP:X BESS 

A courtier said unto a queen: 
'O lofty one, how passing fair 
Thou art to me — more fair, I ween, 
Than stars amid Chaldea's air. 
And thou art distant as a star 
From me, upon thy regal seat; 
]\Iay I not cherish love afar 
As mortals worship some bright star 
That makes the utmost heaven sweet? 
And cast no homage at thy feet? 
This boon you cannot me deny. 
Yet if I only dared to speak, 
I'd shame the splendors of the sky 
With fires of love that hidden lie, 
Or burn beneath my pallid cheek!" 

Said she, "O knight of fearful heart. 
If thou hadst dared with courage true, 
No throne had kept us then apart. 
Thou didst not dare — so then, adieu I" 



OLD TIMES IX UTAH 

'What uproar is that, my Inquisitive clown?" 
'It's a saint and his harem coming to town." 



AX ILL VOYAGE 



Be this compared to some strange sea 

That lies before us fair to view. 
Though safe its restless billows be 

While yet their shining ways are new; 
Though beauty tints yon azure skies. 

And snowy sails on high are spread, 
Shall there anon no storm arise 

To fill our startled souls with dread? 

All sunlit now the tides appear, 

And perfumes mingle with their foam; 

No cloud hath lowered far or near — 
It seems but rapture now to roam. 

'Speed on, O bark," the proud heart cries, 
"And at the helm let Hope prevail!" 

Ah! who shall say what tempest files 
In reckless wrath where we shall sail' 



SON(;S t)F A MAN WHO FAILED 

KF/rrRX OF TIIK \'KTKKANS 

[ISti.j.l 

We lay them down — the arms we've borne 
Through weary years of strife; 
We hoist our banners, stained and torn, 
Above a Nation filled with life. 

We left our homes when darkness hung 
Like desolation o'er the land. 
Our battle songs with joy we sung,' 
From plain to peak our clarions rung, 
- We marched at Freedom's high command. 

y 
Our hosts aligned at Freedom's call 
When Europe's kings reviled our cause; 
When craven lips implored us pause 
Ere blood should flow and heavens fall. 

We taught the foe a lesson red, 
We wrapped his land in blood and flame. 
And myriads weep above their dead, 
And rue the day our legions came. 

From plain to sea we smote our way. 

Disasters came, we fought again — 

We hastened on in fierce array. 

Not fortress, mountain, flood or fen 

Our mighty armaments could stay. 

We wrought our task and wrought it well, 

Nor turned us back from any fray, 

Nor cared for dawn of peaceful day 

Till Treason's vaunted powder fell. 

The same young hearts of iron mould 
That bid fair Freedom reign. 
My beard Napoleon's cohorts bold * 
And rend his strongly fettered chain. 

Columbia! keep thy shield and sword, 
And back to Europe drive his horde. 

* Maximilian's empire in Mexico. 



PKAIKIE DEdEXKKATES 

The paltry knave who whines for peace. 
Nor dares defend his olden rights, 
But sneaks away till tumults cease. 
Becomes the slave of him who fights. 
The haughty lord is born for sway; 
The base born serf, to be his prey. 
A mongrel horde that will not fight 
Deserves to sink in slavish night. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 257 

NIP:TZS( HE-S VIEAV OF THEOLOGY 

It is a parasite, a curse — 
Finds earth a hell and makes it worse. 
■With bloody fangs and base pretense, 
Each creed it needs it swift invents. 
While grievous ills bestrew its way 
It makes the human race its prey. 
The tempting joys it holds in view 
Wait in a world unknown to you. 



SrPEPvSTITK )X 



O Superstition! fettered now. 

Hell hath no fiend so dread as thou. 



rYRRHUS 



With rock or tile or brick-bat red, 

A woman smote him on the head 

And laid him out as good as dead. 

They dragged him forth and cut his throat; 

A panic seized his legions wild; 

His conquests were not worth a groat — 

Ignobly perished Glory's child. 

Through sundry papers quaintly drawn, 

A woman's hand has dealt at me 

A sudden blow I smile upon. 

A smug attorney says she's gone 

In quest of-a divorce decree. 
(The gentle sex — so called — ah! me.) 

I will not let the Grecian's fate 

Be mine, in midst of my career. 

Whatever she may choose relate. 

Or to the world shall make appear. 

I answered back, at any rate, 
"Go set the frantic lady free." 

He spake in accents of much weight, 
"In thirty days so shall it be." 

W^hat though my name be now disgraced — 

And over this I feel quite sore — 

A set of brains are not replaced 

At any corner physic store. 

No more the past shall be retraced; 

I'll smash my glass and drink no more. 

Adieu to woe and wife and wine — 

The Grecian's fate shall not be mine. 



SONC}S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

SHAKESPEARE UiVlli )VED 

Put money in thy purse, 

Nor take it out again, 

Nor lose the purse, 

Nor let any one get his fingers in it. 

This do, wise child. 



DESCENDANT OF THE CAVE MAN 

The human animal was born to fight. 
War — Love — have ever been his chief delight. 
He feeds on love until he gets his fill. 
Then forth he bellows in a rage to kill. 
Thou bloody knave, to nobler warfare turn; 
With Nature strive, and fadeless honors earn. 

Advice is vain — with fiendish will 
He turns to Science, and with skill, 
But only tries, his fellow man to kill. 



C( )MM AN DANT ( )F AN I)EKS( )X VI LLE 

[At the close of the Civil War, at Washington City, Wir/ 
was convicted of murder on several charges. During his trial 
I sent him this i?oem. It was given to him in open court. 
Reading it, he handed it back, saying: "T have got used to 
these things. After hearing the testimony against me I am 
prepared for anything." He was hanged.] 

Our day of triumph now has come. 

Soon will come thy day of doom; 
Who never felt a human throb 

Should close his life in utter gloom. 

Why pity thee? who dared to tread 

Our comrades, dying, 'neath thy heel; 

Who laughed above our ghastly dead. 
As with a heart of stone or steel; 

Who jested at wild scenes of woe, 

And filled the captive's cup with gall — 

We triumph in thy overthrow: 
We glory, monster, in thy fall. 

Atrocious wretch! go to thy death; 

Confront our brother spirits there. 
And reap the merits of thy deeds 

In ages of despair. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 259 



AT THE GATE 

St. Peter gave a most regretful look. 
'Quite a lot of things upon the book." 

'Ah! truly so but since I had a fall 
I've doubly paid for follies all. " 

'Yes, I knov^r you have, so don't despair. 

You'll find a harp awaiting there. 

Walk in. I think I'll call the matter square. 



THE PAKEXTVS INJUNCTION 

[1917.1 

Upon our country's altar laid, 

Go forth to war, my noble son, 

And come not back till strife is done. 

The soldier has a weary trade. 

So, ere disastrous fields are won, 

To others leave the vulgar gun. 

And join the Swivel-Chair Brigade. 

O, I shall be exceedingly consoled 
If you prove a lounge-lizard bold 
In the Swivel-Chair Brigade. 



THE KOYAL COTTON W(30D 

Tree of the Plains! it yields in rank to none. 

It proudly waves where tree no other grows. 

It shelters from the with'ring Sun, 

Gives cool relief and blest repose. 

The panting beast, the pioneer, the timid maid. 

All gather in its welcome shade. 

'It dies too soon — the tree's no good," 
The rancher growls in gruff reply. 
In days long gone, the wise construed 

'Whom gods do love they early die.' 
The sturdy oak adorns our lays, 
The lordly palm in verse we praise. 
Yet, struggling on to distant flood, 
In heat and dust and solitude. 
Confused beneath the noontide blaze 
That scorches all these weary ways. 
With joyous hearts and words of praise 
We hail the royal Cottonwood. 



260 SONOS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE niJIU'STKirs PKOHLEM 

Ho! chevaliers, a word with you. 
Which one believes fair maids are true? 
Can auglit be sworn on Woman's smile? 
, Though some fair Venus vow the while. 
Shall her brave knight believe her true? 

I have some fears 1 fain would calm. 
Come rest you 'neath this lordly i)alm, 
And schemes of war for once abjure, 
To search me out a subtle balm 
Strange love-lorn moods of mine to cure. 

In climes remote I wooed a maid 
Of winsome presence, angel smile. 
A seraph might her lips defile. 
So pure they seem ; her crest arrayed 
In tresses dense of raven shade; 
Her brow like alabaster fair. 
O lustrous eyes of this fair maid — 
Two orbs of light beyond compare. 
Her breath is like this perfumed air; 
Her voice, like Music's gentle might 
Far floating through a tropic night; 
Her light step queenly, and her form 
Embodied passion ere its storm 
Yet dares to break; Love's sweet romance 
Is kindled by her slightest glance. 
All who behold her — all who view 
Her peerless form, her perfect hue, 
Her tender mien and gracious ways, 
Grow frenzied in this lady's praise. 
O, knights inured to martial care. 
Yet skilled, perchance, in Love's sweet lore, 
By those good swords you wield and wear. 
By your green bays of battles o'er. 
Of triumphs won upon this shore. 
Give answer to this question fair. 
If Woman vow shall Man rely 
Till even years and years have flown? 
Does Love's bright summer ne'er speed by? 
Are storms within its skies unknown? 
Cleaves this fair girl to me alone? 
Obeys she now the vows she said? 
In cruel strife few moons have sped 
Since our farewells, yet now, alas! 
) Strange terrors through my fancy pass. 

In dreams at night I seem to see 
The semblance of some woe to be. 
And sombre shadows through the day, 
Do fall in menace round my way; 



IDVLS OF BOHEMIA 

And mystic whispers, on the breeze, 
Come floating off the purple seas. 
Hail you these omens, night and day, 
Dread harbingers of treasons fell? 
My grief is sore — I know too well, 
silent knights, what you would say. 



END OF THE CIVIL WAR 

[Written January 1, 1866.1 

First year of peace! Fair child of Time, 
It starts an old, eternal round, 
Like fugitive from balmy clime 
Where never polar tempest frowned, 
Cast rudely out in wastes of snow 
Where wild the wintry demon reigns; 
Where streams in sullen silence flow. 
Concealed beneath their shiny chains; 
Where noisy gales disturb the air. 
And heavens hide the stars of night; 
Where Nature grim, severely bare. 
Exults alone in savage might. 

The stranger still his path will ti-ead 
Though keenly swept by every gale; 
Though countless snowy tempests slied 
Their wrath around his semblance frail. 
Ay, with a mien of dauntless hope 
He'll face each sombre peril near; 
No storm within his horoscope 
Will make his valiant spirit fear. 

His raptured eye will soon behold 
The radiant sun dissolve the skies. 
Or turn each floating cloud to gold 
Where now the frown of Winter lies. 
The streams will burst their fetters white- 
As sheets of molten silver glow; 
The hills will lose their raiments bright. 
The plains their dazzling heaps of snow; 
As angel Spring, with airy flight. 
Speeds o'er each dull, repulsive scene, 
The groves will own her gentle might, 
And shine in olden hues of green; 
Rich flowers glad the wand'rer's way, 
A thousand charms bewitch his eye, 
To please in flush of golden day. 
And mock at tribulations by. 
While youth and hope and bliss abound. 



262 SOX OS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

He'll riot in his joyous reign, 

But ere he treads his fated round 

The tempests rude will come again. 

Warm greeting to this Peaceful Year. 
War'y wounds and ills anon be healed, 
And notes of industry and cheer 
Be heard where late our cannon pealed; 
The plains grow up with verdure green 
Where deadly arms to arms replied. 
And Heaven smile above each scene 
Where stubborn hosts in combat died; 
The fields be filled with golden grain 
Where human blood was freely poured, 
And Peace once more her happy chain 
Weave round our native land restored. 
O fiends cf War! in haste retire 
To far off climes where chaos reigns. 
And cease to blight with glance of fire. 
Our country's homes and vernal plains. 
When Glory o'er this favored land. 
Pours richly down her golden flood, 
I^et none disdain a brother's hand. 
Or brood en ills erased in blood. 
Soft heavens o'er us smile at last. 
And surges rest along the shore; 
Enough of hate when war is past. 
Enough of wrath when strife is o'er. 

No more with eye of terror view 
Each wave that smites our Nation's bark. 
' The waters wide are calm and blue 
Where lately rolled the surges dark; 
If lingering clouds yet fringe the sky, 
No tempest frets the boundless deep; 
Though dangers yet before us lie 
Where now the billow seems to sleep. 
The ship that rose from Wisdom's hand. 
And rode the storm in gallant state. 
Will safely clear each hostile strand. 
And still bear on its precious freight. 
Way those who led the van in strife. 
And warred the foe on fields of gore, 
Now love the charms of peaceful life, 
And long for thrilling scenes no more. 



POLLING STONE 

O youthful romance! its change is delight; 

Life's duties are dull, its labors are loss. 
Then revel in bliss till Age's deep night, 

But stones that go rolling gather no moss. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



A DIVORCE CASE 

H. C. Parkhurst, please arise. 
You're defendant in this suit. 
Your lady says that you're a brute, 
And soaked in whiskey to your eyes. 
Her life's in danger, so she claims. 
She says you called her fearful names; 
She says you drew an awful knife, 
And swore you'd take her precious life, 
Smashed all her fine things into bits. 
And almost scared her into fits. 
Her miseries are most complete — 
They almost drive her raving wild. 
She feels ashamed to walk the street; 
She says you tried to kill your child. 

Some other things she might relate — 

These allegations ought to do. 

She asks the court to look them through, 

And pity her unhappy fate. 

And rid her of a wretch like you. 

The court perceives the proper course, 

And gives the lady her divorce. 



COPvSAIR S()X(; OF THE SHIPPIXG BOARD 

We're in the business, too; 
We sail the Lobby blue; 

Buying men's our duty. 
To any Trust we're true. 

We're faithful to our booty. 
The coin rings loud 
To the banditti crowd — 

We hold the bag all day. 
In safety we ride 
On Corruption's tide; 

Ship ahoy! Hooray! 



A MIXING PREvSIDENT 

His minions stood around in meek array. 
Each with a grievous tale of woe to say. 
When all to him had properly salaamed. 
He curtly said, in his imperial way: 
'Consider everything and everybody damned- 
And start the business of the day." 



264 SONC;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



COLUMBIA'S FIRST MONARCH 

"Aye, let them feast," in scorn he said, 
"Who deign to kiss a tyrant's hand, 
But were they like their fathers bred, 
Ere such a throne as mine would stand, 
An hundred fields would smoke with dead. 



A DIVORCEE ATTORNEY 

The attorney came down like a wolf on the fold. 
And his clients were shorn of their greenbacks and gold, 
For the fees that he charged were as frightful to see 
As the sharks that swim gaily in blue Galilee. 

I^ike the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 
Those people with ducats at sunset were seen; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown. 
Their wealth on the morrow was vanished and gone. 

For the minion of Law spread his wings on the blast. 
And he raked in his fees of great size as he passed, 
And the hearts of his clients grew deadly and chill, 
As they gave him one look — and settled his bill. 

There sat a husband, distorted and pale, 
With a patch on his pants and no stamps on his mail; 
His mouth was all silent, his nostrils unblown. 
His troubles were lifted, his money was gone. 



MADRKJAL 

Rise, O my love — my fair one — come away. 
Lo! the winter is past, and the storms disband; 
The hills are all green in their spring time array. 
Flowers appear; glad birds are singing alway — 
The sound of the turtle is heard in our land. 
O, be thou like a rose perfuming the air, 
For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance fair. 
Rise, O my love, my fair one, and come away. 



DOXT FORCJET VOFRSELF 

Old age and its memories make us wise — 
Ay, harden our hearts and oi)en our eyes. 
In generous deeds find pleasant employ. 
But always be good to yourself, my boy. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

TO TH?: MUSES 

Fair ladies of immortal Greece, 
The bard must pack his traps and wander hence. 
His rambles in Parnassian groves must cease. 
Adieu I he goes to find the Golden Fleece — 
The wherewithal to meet each day's expense. 
We know that rhymes pass current in the sky, 
And song is there esteemed as good as gold, 
But he who dwells among these mortals cold 
Must have the coin, or show good reason why. 
The poet leaves you, ladies, for a while; 
Each lissome dame on him has ceased to smile^ 
And sundry people give him cool reply; 
He needs to find some frontier bandit's cave, 
Where yellow heaps of gold neglected lie. 
His landlord is a mild, sarcastic knave 
Who views him with a cold and fishy eye. 
Like a prodigal he's had his day. 
And ascertains, with something of a sigh. 
None heed his ready promises to pay. 
Adieu, old ladies of the Grecian clime, 
His pocket's empty and he's out of rhyme. 



OUPv FALLEN BKAVE 

Above the nation's brave what shall we strew? 

For sorrow that we feel, cast boughs of yew, 

The yellow marigold, and aloes bright; 

For majesty of soul cast lilies white. 

And fragrant mignonettes; for death, dead leaves; 

Moss for maternal love — Columbia grieves! 

The myrtle vine for saddened love of all. 

For patriotic zeal that never slept 

AVhen Warfare's thousand perils did appall. 

The chamomile; the passion flower fall 

LTpon their graves — how well their faith they kept 

On bloody field, before the shattered wall. 

For high nobility, fresh leaves of oak; 

Violets for worth; for pity, leaves of pine; 

And for high constancy that never broke 

In prison vile or on- embattled line. 

The hyacinth of many hues; for youth. 

The yellow crocus, early blooming, cast; 

For pride, red roses and nightshade for truth. 

The fadeless amaranth cast thou at last. 



SOXCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

DIVINE TOBACCO 

The tender sex full oft enthuse 

When wordy folks King Nicotine abuse. 

Divinest weed! Of Peace a symbol fair, 

I give to thee thy worthy dues. 

Tobacco,, hail I thrice blessed weed; 

Eternal solace, friend indeed; 

A boon to toilers everywhere; 

To thinkers, idlers, dreamers, knights who dare; 

Coy tempter of poetic muse. 

And vanquisher of human care; 

Adored alike by Christians, Turks and Jews; 

By honest folk of Pagan breed; 

By red men, heathen clans without a creed. 

A peaceful pipe is emblem true 

Of olden love or friendship new. 

It mends the tie by discord broke. 

And gives a balm for Hymen's yoke; 

It mocks at matrimonial stews. 

The fragrant weed with joy we smoke; 

For choice a pipe, cigars 1 ne'er refuse; 

Good snuff I also use. 

To chew I often choose. 



COLUMBUS IX CHAINS 

[On November 5th, 1500, Columbus entered Cadiz, Spain. 
under guard, wearing chains and fetters.] 

No deeper cloud or baser stain 
Falls o'er a land whose glories wane. 
Than Ingratitude's vile spot of shame. 
'Tis thine to wear, O cruel Spain. 



.MY FELLOW (T)UNTKYMEN" 

Although "the foreign element" 

Against this query may demur — 
AMien Woodrow says "my countrymen, 

To whom does he refer? 
To Yankee chumps with optics blind. 

Ob^ssed by pyroscopic wiles? 

Or yoemen of the British isles 
That lure his sly and foxy mind? 
To either class he's much Inclined, 
But all his thoughts are not divined. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



THE SECTION HAND'S WISH 

"What shall I give you, Pat. 

By a fairy's high command?" 
"Please, sir," the weary man replies, 
"Have time hang heavy on me hands." 



COEEEE AND TOBACCO 

Balm and solace in our need, 
Friends at all times — friends indeed — 
The blessed berry and the blessed weed. 

When Woman and the Snake deceived 
The great forefather of our clan, 
(Scarce can his folly be believed,) 
A pitying angel soon relieved 
The sorrows of distracted Man. 
Concealed by some celestial plan, 
This angel threw from heavenly blue 
The pipe-of-peace and coffee-bean to :Man. 
Though prudes may rave and crazy people frown, 
We'll quaff the precious nectar down; 
Though ladies jeer ami preachers choke. 
We'll smoke! and smoke! and smoke! 



WATCHFUL WAITING ON THE RIO GRANDE 

[1914.] 

John Brown's body 

Is wriggling in its grave. 
In the land of the sneak 

And the home of the knave. 



A VAIN RESOLVE 

O crazy man with a sounding lyre. 
Go toss your songs in a kitchen fire. 
If e'er I touch sweet harp again, 
Drive me away from the haunts of men. 
O bury me on some Polar shore 
Where the walrus roam or billows roar. 
While Byron, Burns, Will Shakespeare shine, 
There's enough of song for the ladies nine. 
I'll wear old clothes for the jades no more, 
Nor suffer for them on rations poor. 
My sorrows and songs I now resign — 
Here goes to write my very last line. 



268 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

^JHE ARMY MULE 

[1865.1 

With ready lieels and impulse gay 
He made civilians keep away; 
He hauled our powder to the fray, 
He scattered rations on our way; 
In times of danger he was cool. 
While heroes don the wreath of bay, 
O honor, too, the Army Mule. 

Ulysses built a wooden horse 
To make a woman taste remorse. 
King Porus had his elephants. 
The Romans dressed in iron pants; 
The Seythians rode their shaggy steeds, 
As did the Persians and the Medes. 
O sages of our martial schools, 
What did they know of army mules? 

How hoarsely at the break of day 
Pealed through the woods and far away, 
The Army IMule's resentful bray? 
How stubbornly he'd bravely tug 
To drag our wagons through the mire. 
While bloody spurs tore at his girth. 
And sudden speed displayed his worth. 
And whip-stocks laid across his mug 
Aroused to heat his martial fire. 
But when that mule refused to go. 
In vain the wrathful teamster's blow. 
'Twas fun when raw recruits would fool 
Around, behind an army mule. 

Now that the country has been saved. 
Who ever thanks the Army Mule 
For all the dangers that he braved. 
Or cares a dash what he endured 
Of blows? Of military snubs? 
His divers ills nobody cured 
Except by breaking rails and clubs 
Across his back and stubborn head. 
And calling him outrageous names. 
In my last will, when 1 am dead, 
I'll recognize his worthy claims. 
While marble i)iles extol the guilt 
Of bloody knave or lucky fool, 
I'll have a noble statue built 
In honor of the Army Mule. 
On costly granite he shall stand. 
Surrounded by his rebel hay. 
In act of waking uj) the land 



IDYLS OF B O H E M I A 

With his reverberating bray. 

Praise saint and sinner, knave and fool — 

I'll boom the noble Army Mule. 



TO KIX(; ALCOHOL 

The vine bears three sorts of grapes — pleasure, intoxication 
and repentance. — An a eh a is is. 

I guess, old fellow, you and I will part. 

We've stuck together new for quite a while. 

I'm little versed in the accounting art 

So dearly prized by people mercantile; 

I cannot balance books within a mile 

Of any designated point, and yet, 

When I look back on precious years now flown, 

And think of things that cause me wild regret; 

Of follies that should melt a heart of stone; 

Of crimes I for which I never can atone, 

Whose memories assassinate my peace, 

And make me covet death as but release 

From such a life — disastrous grown! 

And when I think of all I might have won, 

Of brilliant hopes and nothing noble done; 

Of miseries, of deep disgrace — I feel 

Like cursing you with most terrific zeal. 

The long account that stands 'tween you and I 
Sho%s little profit and tremendous loss. 
When first your iNIajesty I came across, 
(The very recollection makes me sigh,) 
You appeared a pleasant rogue indeed. 
How well you made an idle ev'ning speed. 
Delightful times we had together then; 
Sometimes the ladies joined us in our den — 
What fun they think it is to drink with men. 
Of coin and friends and clothes I had enough; 
I wore my jewels and my diamonds, too; 
But now, you see, I'm looking pretty rough — 
And all because I cast my lot with you. 
And you a knave, I find, of deepest dye; 
A liar skilled in uttermost deceit. 
How oft you've turned me on the street, 
A spectacle to passers by. 

I've found you out, at last, a deadly foe; 
How basely treacherous I know you are I 
I came from years of war without a scar, 
And yet for you a number I can show. 
You've got me in a hundred savage broils, 
And sev'ral times have had me nearly killed. 



270 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

My bosom is with indignation filled 

To think you waste the fruit of all my toils. 

Beelzebub should only have his due — 

i roundly curse myself as well as you. 

You think you've played a game that's mighty fine, 
And put an end to hope in my affairs, 
But look you now — my age is thirty-nine — 
(And in my head and beard I find gray hairs 
That put you in, that 1 keep pulling out;) 
Do you suspect what I am now about? 
From this time on I want no more of you. 
Pass on your way for I have chosen mine. 
Go fill your dirty troughs for other swine, 
And let them swill, as I was wont to do. 
And rot their brains with filthy rum and wine. 
Make beasts and brutes of other hapless men — 
You'll never make a slave of me again. 

(Alas! for poets and their silly ways; 
This noble purpose lasted ninety days. 
I got a store of golden coin ahead. 
And then the merry underworld I painted red.) 



.AIACDOXALD AT WA(iRA:\r 

Death was the victor of them all. 
Each moment saw its thousands fall, 
Nor skill, nor Desperation's blows, 
"Brought awful slaughter to a close. 
The fearful scene the chief surveyed 
With indecision and with pain; 
His grenadiers in strife arrayed 
Were thrice outnumbered by their slain. 
He turned in hojieless quest of aid. 
And saw a glittering line of steel 
Approach with firmness of parade; 
Soon cheers he heard above the peal 
Of myriad guns that round him played. 
'Advance!" he cried '"and still advance 
While stands in arms a single foe." 
His heroes charged for sunny France — 
With bayonets and shining lance 
They swept the wide and red plateau. 
'Tis thus in life— we oft would yield. 
When hope is dim and woes oppress — 
Disastrous failure we confess. 
A final effort sweeps the field — 
Victorious joys our valor bless. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 271 



MEMORIAL DAY 

To-day, O clarion, sound 
No weird and melancholy strain. 
Let artillery shake the ground, 
And sound, O trumpets, in disdain. 
Defiant be the bugle's note, 
And high aloft, O banners float — 
Columbia's most heroic slain 
(Their spirits have not passed away) 
Now swiftly marshal once again 
As if in onset's dread array, 
With us to hail this sacred day. 
Earth's chief republic lives again 
With every vile, repulsive stain 
Washed by their gen'rous blood away. 
Let thund'ring guns the story tell- 
In Freedom's cause, on stormy main, 
Embattled height and smoky plain. 
The Nation's high-souled heroes fell. 
This is to them triumphal day. 



A TROPIC ^lORX 



Wide inlets and the broad lagoons are still. 

The low green islands wake not yet with sound. 

Tides and floods, indigo-blue, seaward sweep. 

Where utmost calms prevail, and fast expand 

The naked beaches clean as polished gold. 

Beyond the misty bay volcanoes loom. 

Their lines colossal traced in heavens blue. 

The clouds of eve are fled, the stars are gone, 

And rich the glowing East is clad in hues. 

In tints, to skies of colder climes unknown. 

Soon bursts the Sun upon a dazzled world, 

Swift mounting through etherial skies, 

A monarch! fierce, triumphant and ablaze. 

The peaks, amazed, resign their purple hue; 

Anon the coiling vapors slowly soar 

Around each summit bleak, and veil it quite. 

Now pulse the shores, the earth and isles, with heat; 

Enraptured birds cleave high the perfumed air; 

Bright serpents coil, unscared, on bush and plant; 

Gay bathers plunge in shady, limpid pools, 

Or seek the foamy rush of ocean surf. 

The drowsy plantains wave their long green arms, 

Indolent winds just move the listless palms. 

And Day — warm, blushing and magnificent, 

With pomps regathered, is forth again. 

Brown senoritas rove in shade of palm. 

Or lounge along a dazzling beach 

Where the jasper and rich opal shine. 



SON'C;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



TO MV LAST COIN 

"Who loves not wine, woman and song, 
Lives a fool his whole life long." 

The best of friends must part. 'Tis Fate's decree. 

I've parted with more friends than I can count, 

Since I got started on this jamboree, 

And yet to what does friendship all amount? 

'Tis full of smiles, of jestings debonair — 

Of kind and chivalrous address. 

'Tis best adapted when the weather's fair. 

But not when vessels labor in distress. 

A miner on bright California's shore, 
Who wore a belt of twenties round his loin. 
Once said to me: "Your best friend is your coin." 
And so I think. The other friends are good. 
(I'd sadly hate to be misunderstood,) 
But when I weep for friends I have no more, 
'Twill be for friends like thee, thou shining ore. 

Now sole remaining friend, prepare to go. 

Some other time we'll meet again perhaps. 

I much regret that I must treat you so. 

But I would seat me by those other chaps. 

I need just now a foamy glass of beer. 

At which, sometimes, cold-water people sneer. 

I would somewhat refresh the inner man, 

Keep off the snakes and cultivate elan. 

I saw a devil ten feet high last night. 

And ghosts did walk my chamber through and through. 

Five drinks have partly failed to fix me right, 

So, faithful coin, a long, a sad adieu. 



wiiki:l-(^hatr moxkey-siitnes 

The whole world gazed in mute despair 

As they wheeled him out in open air 

In a fancy presidential chair. 

St. Peter smiled at such a break. 

And then observed: "He takes the cake 

For grand-stand plays, I do declare. 

His illness, boys, is all a fake." 

But his beautiful words and doleful air 

Put a blanket over the Shipping affair. 



FALLEX (WSTLES 

There's no use mourning what you might have done; 
Strive hard for prizes that may still be won; 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

THE ]\[OXPvOE DOCTPvIXE 

[Written in 1874. | 

O Ruler of great Colon's world. 
Lift algis o'er this lovely strand. 
No despot flag be here unfurled. 
Its nations call to prouder birth, 
And peal it forth to ends of earth. 
With sword of might in mailed hand — 
By seas of blood for Freedom shed 
On countless fields at thy command — 
That throne or kingdom shall not stand, 
That royal power shall not spread. 
Or crown descend from sceptred sire, 
From Polar snows to Land of Fire. 
Where dwells the mighty American Race 
For alien banners, royal reign. 
For European crown's domain. 
For throne or vassal is no place. 



WOEVES 



If I might realize a present wish, 

'Twould be to be cold-blooded as a fish, 

A sort of human wolf let out for prey. 

No matter what old-fashioned people say — • 

Those are the dogs that always have their day. 

To estimate a fellow being's need, 

How much a victim may endure to bleed; 

Just what is prudent, what is safe indeed — 

This is their highest happiness and creed. * 

Their consciences to leather shreds have worn, 

Cast-iron smiles their visages adorn. 

Proof are their hides to shafts of human scorn — 

Such men, like us great poets, must be born. 



THE CFIOICE OE BERMUDEZ 

Romanceful thoughts for aye repose 

Upon thy crest, O regal rose. 

Thou queen in beauty, sweet perfume, 

Of all the floral gems that bloom. 

When rich thy royal crimson glows, 

A thousand annals wake of strife, 

Of chivalry, of lofty life. 

Of grand or lowly lovers' woes. 

When mine has been a soldier's doom, 

Strew thou red roses on my tomb. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

KEVP:L in LEON 

[From "Sun Worship Shores."] 

Around this hall our band align;- 
Array in haste the festal board 
Where fearless Walker drew the sword 
To reign as Nicaragua's lord. 
The scene that once through warfare long, 
Resounded with disorder's clang — 
Where trumpets wild of glory sang. 
Where drums were beat and bugles rang. 
Shall echo now with festal song. 
Sweet music peal! Pour lethean wine 
Till eyes with glow of rapture shine. 
No free lance bears a burden long, 
The minstrel's woe is lost in song, 
And eyes replete with mournful thought 
Are swift by gay temptations caught. 
Tlie rose that lifts its gorgeous head 
Hath bloomed from dust of heroes dead. 
The flower fair we idly view, 
Hath risen from gay Beauty's tear; 
The laurel wreath we value dear. 
Hath drank of human blood like dew. 

wrest from life, ere all is fled, 
Whate'er of joy may charm us here. 
Ay, banish grief to deserts far — 

In Spanish wine's red wave renew 
Defiance of the cares we rue. 
This life is but a scene of war; 
Nowhere beneath fair heavens blue 
4s found the lone and happy spot 
Where grim disasters visit not. 
Now each who is depressed and sad 
Shall well the direful cause reveal. 
Rich wine shall make his spirit glad. 
And balm of love his wound shall heal. 

1 bid you in rich golden wine 
Your souls infuse with peace divine. 
Honduras gales, o'er billows cool. 
Sigh pn?ans to sweet Polly's rule. 
The seas of blue, the stars of fire, 

But laugh to scorn proud Man's desire. 

'Tis well to bid to care adieu, 

And revel with Fortuna's crew. 

If life be dull we'll make it gay; 

If cares oppress they must away; 

If winsome Glory holds aloof. 

She puts our courage to the proof. 

Pour lethean wine — we'll revel while 

This haughty queen disdains to smile. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 275 

An olden free lance creed be taught — 
The roses wear while winds are warm; 
Have lawless bliss from any lot, 
Nor furl fair sails from any storm. 



THE CAVALIER'S REdRET 

Free lances wild, when once the word 
Is said that binds two souls as one. 
Cast by the harp and sacred sword — 
The nomad knight's career is done. 
Romance is past, and earth no more 
A rose field fair afar expands; 
For aye are gone the wonderlands 
Delighted eyes did once explore. 
Nor longings for adventure wild 
Dare thriirthe breast of Fancy's child. 
No flowers bloom, no groves expand; 
No vistas of exchanted land 
Reward his sad, repentant gaze; 
No seas lift up their billows white 
To flash beneath a golden light. 
Nor awful sheen of Glory's blaze 
Illumes these vile, ignoble ways. 
An eagle's wings, in fearless might. 
Will stretch no more for boundless flight 
Elysian day hath reached its night^ 
Morose Despair henceforth must reign. 



THE WORLD-S WAY 

jNIost men are used as old post horses are — 
No matter if they founder, so our friend 
With speed and ease attains his journey's end. 
]\Ieanwhile, the driver puffs a good cigar. 



HYMN OF THE HOME SEEKER 

There's a land that is warmer than this, 

Where land-grabbers retire 

In bedrooms of fire, . 

And dragons stand up on their long tails and hiss, 

Where unscrupulous knaves 

And political slaves , -^^ 

Float round on red billows that sizzle and siss. 

O send the whole gang. 

With uproar and bang. 

To simmer and bake in that dreadful ab>ss. 



SONC.S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



TX THE TKEXTHES 

While Woodrow howls in language stern 
'Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.' 
The dough-boy hears with unconcern. 
He hopes affairs will take a turn. 



WVOMIXd I FILLS 

[Written in 1870.1 

When flood-tides of Fortune have swept me afar, 
Have wafted my bark to lands of the Sun, 

O leave the fair gates of Mem'ry ajar, 
And think, O think of the wandering one. 

While strangers and foes encompass me then. 
And the sad heart mourns its happier day, 

O waste you a thought for times that have been — 
And a thought for the perils that darken my way. 

When powers in arms loom dark on our path. 
And hosts embattled are gathering near, 

O little I'll reck their turbulent wrath. 

While pondering on one remembered and dear. 

When War's deep echo, artillery's crash, 

Resound o'er the plains they tarnish with gore; 

When columns that scorn the cannon's quick flash. 
Their volleys of death incessantly pour; 

Wlien carnage o'erspreads the martial scenes red, 
And valleys re-echo with battle's wild roar, 

How sweet to recall the days that are fled — 
Halcyon days we'll number no more. 

When cheers of triumph float up to the sky, 
Proclaiming the foe's disaster and shame. 

Some spirit of love in brightness will fly, 
To fling at thy feet my laurels of fame. 



A DAY ICONOCLASTIC, ID-JO 

On a chill November day 

Tumulty waved the scribes away. 

With his hand o'er head. 

In whispers he said: 

He has nothing to say — nothing to sayl' 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 277 

BRITISH TROOPS IX NICARAGUA-1895 

[See Prose Addenda.] 

The corsair flag of England flies 

Around our sliores in haughty threat. 

It flaunts beneath our native skies, ; 

Upon our gales its colors fret; 

And England's castles o'er us rise, 

Insulting to Columbia's wave. 

Though mighty fleets our fury brave, 

The blood of Concord courses yet. 

In savage greed of Norman pride, 

Britannia's navies past us ride, 

To rob the shores that helpless lie, 

As Morgan robbed in days gone by, 

While Prudence in our council hall 

With placid smile regards it all. 

But flres of hate that smoulder low. 

May blaze again for Freedom's foe. 

And peal of arms and roar of war 

Resound o'er continents afar. 

The task that once was barely done 

]\Iay be by stronger hands begun. 

Ere Star of Empire change its course. 

The march that failed, to far Quebec, 

May be renewed with vaster force 

That royal power will not check. 

For England was our fathers' foe. 

Our secret foe is England yet. 

Her hateful friendship is a snare. 

If now the sun may never set 

Upon her plundered empire wide. 

Let her curtail her Norman pride, 

And have her fleets remotely ride, 

Or storms will range our native air. 



A YOUTHFUL DEFEAT 

O'ershadowed by a black defeat 
In utter woe I sit me down, 
A ruthless horde beneath their feet 
Have crushed, alas! my golden crown. 
A sceptre I was born to sway 
Is broke, dishonored, cast away. 
And all my dreams— once dazzling bright- 
Have vanished as the stars of night 
Recede before the beams of day. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

MY X()P.LE SIRE 

He made his will with utmost care, 

And changed it oft, and got it right. 

To all the rest he gave a share. 

To me he gave a slight. 

For fear his cash would soon be spent 

For booze and godless merriment, 

To me he left not one red cent. 

Ancestral worship does not seem 

To me a choice poetic theme. 

My thoughts that way are not much bent. 

T'pon his name I put a blot. 

I owe my predecessor naught. 

Like Ivanhoe, (the lawyers write), 

I'm a disinherited knight. 

Romantic fate! unpleasant quite 

When coin is scarce and money tight. 

While solemn heirs their ducats roll, 

I'll double-cross my totem pole. 

Patriarchal spite be d — d. 

By no man's rules will 1 be calmed. 

LTntil my body is embalmed 

My course thru life will still be slammed — 

And rammed— and jammed. Selah! 



THE SIX ELOWEIJ STATE 

This prairie land a border war made free. 

I gaze upon its happy plains with pride. 

Across them once I saw the savage ride — 

I truced with bands of painted chivalry. 

All earth is crowded now — shall some wild horde 

Roam o'er domains where millions might abide? 

Let airy sentiment be cast aside — 

The desert blossom, guarded by the sword. 



SERPENT IX THE (JARDEX 

Where's the guy that Heaven annoints 

To gather up the scattered joints 

Of the famous reptile. Fourteen Points? 



TEMPUS EUCHT 



'Tis well to scheme and closely plan. 
For "Time and Tide wait for no man. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



AVAR AVTTOOP OF THE BOOK MAX 

Away with immorality, I say; 

No publisher can make it pay. 

Let not these rhymesters be so brash; 

Plain common sense has had its day. 

Book buyers now, nine times in ten — 

Masculine women and feminine men. 

Weak-minded folks — want only trash. 

We publishers want only cash. 

Too well we know who's who and what's what. 

American Idiots must have rot — 

Hasty, silly, sentimental stuff 

In slovenly diction, language tough. 

Yea, it's gush, slush, visionary rot 

That brings us money on the spot. 

Jingle, twaddle, bunk! Slush! 

Gush, mush, and yet more gush; 

With a momentary hush 

This brings the money with a rush. 

It's what the people want. 

This other stuff — away! avaunt! 

It's not adapted for this age 

Of wooden heads and every sort of cant. 

Give us gush, slush, visionary rant. 

When common sense gets on a page, 

It puts the book men in a rage. 



A TKOPIC MADRIGAL 

'I am dark but comely, O daughters of Jerusalem. 

If wintry snows of my far clime 
Might shame thy hue, O tropic maid, 
Beneath the boughs of this green lime. 
With Ocean's waves slow sounding time 
Along the cliffs, with sullen chime. 
Repine thou not. Let Sorrow's shade 
Dim ruder brows, in colder years. 
When calmer thought confers relief — 
Youth is no time for idle tears, 
A scene like tliis no place for grief. 

Gaze out upon the purple deep. 
Resplendent with celestial beams. 
A realm of splendor now it seems; 
Its mighty storms are all asleep, 
And on its breast the sunset streams 
As though the skies no more could keep 
Their garnered wealth of liquid gold. 
What pageantries thine eyes behold! 



280 SOXCS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

See all the heavens far unrolled, 

As sacred annals have foretold 

All earth shall see one potent day. 

See how the torn clouds drift away, 

Recoiling from the piercing rays — 

Intensity of sunset blaze — 

And catching tints and gorgeous hues 

That to tlie very waves infuse 

The air with red magnificence. 

Marlt how the spray, white as the tents 

Of some vast host, leaps up to kiss 

The glories lavished on the air. 

But ere it falls to seethe and hiss 

In Ocean's dark and deep abyss. 

Far from the Sun's incessant glare. 

It floats a rainbow in the air. 

So panoplied in wondrous dyes 

It seems an atom of the skies, 

A fragment of some golden land 

Flung down to earth by angel hand. 

Is this not fair? O grand the sea 

That leaves unceasing this bright shore, 

And soft the winds that wander free 

From wastes of foam where tempests roar 

To these green isles, henceforth to be 

Soft bearers of all sweet perfume 

Caught up from where rich flowers bloom; 

From where the groves of orange spread, 

Whose blossoms fill the boughs o'erhead. 

Or strew the soil like scattered snow. 

And grand the peaks so still and blue. 

That cast their shades on earth below 

Ere yet fair Night hath dared renew 

Her brilliant reign, or proudly hang 

Her glowing Cross in southern sky. 

And sterner than some trumpet's clang. 

And sadder than some heart's deep sigh. 

The thund'ring surge fierce springs and breaks 

Against the land's impassive wall 

With smothered moan. The soul awakes 

To life renewed at its wild call. 

There is a cadence in its fall, 

A mournfulness that is not drear. 

That sweeeps like music on the ear. 

Rave, rave, wild waters in delight, 

I glory in your sullen power; 

Your high contempt of human might, 

Defiant force and robings wiiite 

Of beauty dread, more winsome far 

Than woman in her rarest hour. 

O, who can stay you? Who can bar 

Your headlong tides, when mortals cower, 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 281 

In pallid awe, e'en at your voice? 
Rejoice. O tameless floods, rejoice! 
Speak till the bending heavens hear, 
Send forth afar terrific sounds: 
Consume the Land's now trembling walls, 
For Man is but the worm that crawls 
In the Sun's glare for a brief day, 
But you endure, wild waves, alway; 
Encircled earth denotes your bounds. 



DANIEL BOOXK 



A quaint old town, named for a Spanish king, 
When Spain's dominion stretched unbroken from 
The Carib seas to Minnesota snows. 

The convent bells fling music to the stars. 
How fair the scene around this flow'ry height. 
A brilliant moon o'erhangs a placid world. 
Above alluvial lands a snowy mist 
Is motionless, veiling flelds of rustling maize 
And dark, imperial groves of oak. 
Lights twinkle in a thousand rural homes; 
The turbulent Missouri hastens by. 
Last eve I praised its glist'ning tides. 
Speeding on with such resistless force. 
A lady, gentle-voiced — of many years — 
In silent thought a while remained, then spoke: 
'I cannot gaze upon that cruel flood," 
She said, "except with tears, or suffocating pain. 
For those remorseless tides drew down to death 
A joyous, happy youth who was my son." 
Then ceased the stream to look so fair — - 
'Twas fierce and wild, imbued with fiendish life. 

Some leagues away, in yonder wood, 
Daniel Boone, the famed hunter, built his home. 
Upon Kentucky's dark and bloody ground 
His noble manhood neared a gloomy close. 
From youth to hoary age his valiant arm 
Had waged unceasing war with savage foes. 
Wide realms he gave to other men to till. 
Homes, farms, towns, cities, capitals 
Arose along the rugged pathway he had trod. 
The jungle and morass became the field 
Where Ceres poured the treasures of her horn. 
Where stood the torture stake the church arose; 
The war whoop died away upon the air. 
And notes of jieace and joy went forth instead. 
Where squalid savagery did once infest, 



SONC^S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Civilization ir.ade her regal home. 
Then robber Law despoiled the gray-haired man- 
Exiled him to the wilderness again. 
He left the regions that his arms had won, 
His heartless countrymen he left behind, 
And here Spain's honored vassal he became. 
With lands — ay, broad ones, too — assigned to him. 
Remote from populous haunts he dwelt. 
With flocks and herds and kinsmen true, 
Like a princely patriarch of Eld. 
The pen of Byron wrote high words of him. 
And History gives his name to other times. 



EVOH TION OF A POEM 

On my thirty-fifth birthday I wrote: 

A Ceesar's crown at thirty-five, 
Encircled proud Napoleon's brow. 
That god of war did fiercely strive. 
But e'en to him all would not bow. 

Alone, afar, my shallop wends 
In quest of Fame's immortal shore; 
The wliirlwind still the ocean rends. 
And foam-white breakers leap and roar; 
The lightning o'er the ocean sends 
Its flames afar — dread torrents pour; 
No gentle god my bark defends — 
ril sail and sail till storms are o'er. 

Let wide disaster sweep the seas, 
The stars be hid and suns be gone; 
Let wildest gales their frenzy please. 
And blackest gulfs in menace yawn; 
Deep thunders fright the trembling seas, 
And rolling clouds obscure the dawn: 
I'll turn not back for foes like these — 
My course is on and on and on. 

My nameless flag still streams on high, 
And there shall stream in regal pride, 
Defiant of a stormy sky 
That canopies a raging tide. 
Let Fury rend an angry main. 
And Fate or Fortune — Chance, deride; 
A will of steel shall yet decide. 
And solve at last Life's mysteries. 
And heart of oak the test abide; 
I'll sail across these hostile seas 
And yet my goal in triumph gain. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 283 

What hand can mar men's destinies 
Who banish fear and smile at pain? 
Though every hope and chance is gone, 
I\ly course is on — and on — and on. 

A few years later, while making up a manuscript of poems 
to be vainly offered to eastern publishers, I decided that these 
lines were probably too personal to be of interest to the aver- 
age reader. As I Iiad many Spanish-American poems, 1 
transformed the production into 



COLUMBUS IX A STORM 

Alone — afar — my shallops wend 
In quest of India's balmy shore. 
Stupendous gales the ocean rend, 
And foam-white breakers leap and roar; 
The lightnings o'er the ocean send 
Their flames afar; dread torrents pour; 
O saints of love our barks defend — 
We still sail on for India shore. 

Some fell disaster sweeps the seas, 
And all the faithful stars are gone; 
Ferocious gales their frenzy please, 
Abyssmal deeps in menace yawn. 
Loud thunders peal o'er foreign seas. 
And ebon clouds obscure the dawn— 
O knights, defy such foes as these; 
For India shore, O still on. 

Proud Isabel! whose gentle eye 
Gave hope to me — that men denied; 
Yea, laughed my lofty dreams aside — 
Thy sacred flag still streams on high, 
And there shall stream in regal pride, 
Defiant of a stormy sky 
That wars a seething ocean's tide. 
O Nature, pour thy noisy tears, 
With mad .^lolus in thy train — 
I've staked a life's wild hopes and fears 
Amid this weird Atlanta main. 
Come boreal gale or spicy breeze. 
Though calms prevail or tumults reign, 
I'll sail across the stormy seas 
And yet the shores of Indus gain. 
O knights defy such foes as these, " 
For angels guide us 'o'er the main. 

From these two versions emanated Joaquin Miller's much 
vaunted "Voyage Of Columbus." 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

rRivrr PEXsiirx bill 

[See Prose Addenda.] 

Come all you good deserters 
Who did not like to kill; 
I'll sing for you a ditty, 
And sing it with a will. 
'Tis all about a friend of yours 
Called Privut Penshun Bill. 

He was a humble sojer once — 

They only called him Bill, 

But when he rose to have good clothes, 

To smoke seegars and drink his fill, 

They called him Penshun Bill; 

O, yes, they called him 

Privut Penshun Bill— 

Cunnel Privut Penshun Bill. 

He lives in Congress City, 

Way up upon the hill. 

Don't you forget — he has his booze! 

You'd think he owned a still. 

In helping out the country's will. 

He caught a chronic thirst. 

It makes him drink. 

Sometimes you'd think 

That Bill would surely burst. 

No more they call him Bill, 

Just only Bill — not now^ you know. 

They call him Privut Penshun Bill — 

Cunnel Privut Penshun Bill. 

He has no use for dirty chumps 

That went to war to stay — 

But loves the good deserters 

Who ran away on battle day — 

O yes, w^ho ran away 

To Podunk or to Kanaday, 

Until the war was past; 

Who ran away to shun affray, 

But all got home at last; 

Came smiling home, no more to roam, 

When that old war was past. 

Hooray for the old flag! 

And likewise shout for Bill. 

If in trouble write 

To Privut Penshun Bill. 

He'll put you on the golden track. 

And ope for you the public till; 

He'll rip for you the money sack. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

He'll cover up your ugly breaks, 
And straighten out each crooked line. 
A grateful country will reward; 
Just write to Privut Penshun Bill. 
He'll fix your needed papers fine. 
There's none remembers all events 
When millions wandered to and fro. 
Your health is bad, me bully boy — 
You wrecked it fifty years ago. 
Just write to Privut Penshun Bill. 
If only once you wore a coat, 
He'll put you at the public till. 
Hooray for the old flag! 
And likewise shout for Bill. 

We love our country — yes we do! 
We love its legal tender, too — 
Its tender notes, its silver, gold. 
Ah! Ugh! Ah! Ugh! I guess we do, 
But most of all, me boys. 
We love our Privut Penshun Bill. 
They call us penshun-leeches now. 
But never mind. We have a friend — - 
A loyal, patriotic friend — 
In Privut Penshun Bill. 



A DESEirr MAIiTYPv 

'I built this lonely cabin here," he said. 

'To hide away from all the human race. 
I had a wife whose wavy tresses red 
Shone like an aureola round, her head. 
She had a dainty form, a bbnnie face, 
And hazel eyes, and, stranger, she was young; 
She was ambition, energy and grace, 
But, ah! she had a temper and a tongue. 
I bore with her two melancholy years — 
Then left her to her conscience and her tears 
It is not good for man to be alone. 
And so, in time, I wooed another wife. 
Alas! my honeymoon was barely gone 
Before the new one girded armor on 
To wreck the fabric of our wedded life. 
She proved to be a feminine cyclone, 
A roaring tempest of domestic strife, 
A thunder storm of Hymen's torrid zone. 
I often sighed to bring my No. 1 
Into that home of battles and of spats. 
And see the pair, like two Kilkenny cats, 
Obtain their fill of pugilistic fun. 



S0NC5S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

But why dwell on unhappy past events? 
With ruined hopes I soon departed thence. 
Bad luck pursued — as soon as I was free. 
The darts of Cupid flew my heart around. 
With solemn fear, with deep regret, I found 
A woman had resolved to marry me. 
She very soon became my No. 3. 
Our honeymoon flew by delightfully, 
But earthly happiness will never last. 
Ere yet we realize our weighty loss. 
Our sunny days, our joys, are in the past. 
The prizes that we draw are only dross. 
My dame aspired, with many haughty airs, 
To wield the sceptre of our home affairs. 
What woes I had 1 think you may surmise. 
One day her death occasioned some surprise. 
As I appeared not over much to grieve, 
My neighbors told me that I'd better leave. 
I came out here where females don't abound, 
And reared a cabiji on this desert ground. 
The land is poor— it won't produce at all. 
But here I'm safe from lovely Woman's wiles. 
There's not a dame around in forty miles. 
A woman led to father Adam's fall — 
I've had my final matrimonial brawl." 

■Why don't you pollywog?" I dryly said. 
'Go join the Mormon crew, and have a pair 
Of turtle doves. While they are pulling hair, 
You'll reign supreme as matrimonial head." 
'No! No! I've had enough of Hymen's cheer," 
He said. "Don't mention that I'm living here. 



MY OWN :SIYSTEKY 

Amid the wreck of ruined dreams I sit — 

1 sadly ponder on disastrous grief. 

I do not weep, for that were vain, nor rail 

With passionate cry at pitiless Fate. 

T only think. I coldly ask myself, 

How came all this about? I brood alone, 

To gaze far back o'er dark and gloomy years. 

And through them trace the thin thread of my doom. 

I see no work or semblance of mere chance. 

But note the cunning skill of heartless Fate. 

This was to be, and more, alas! it is. 

Some subtle problems of my brief career. 

That oft have vexed my will, I've sternly solved. 

I have unloosed my force. 

And most formidable barriers crossed. 

This is a thing I find that baffles me. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

SPANISH RAPACITY 

[The rebuke of Las Casas.1 

O millions die that few may live. 

Is glory but a robber's deed? 

What millions weep that Spain may thrive, 

Her fleets bear bullion o'er the waves. 

In quarry, mine, a myriad slaves 

Give up their lives to Spanish greed. 

Fell demons fan this craze for gold. 

The land is but a slaughter fold, 

A bloody pen, where gore is poured 

In purple streams by War's red sword, 

Before the shrines of gods of gold. 

This ore inspires an awful thirst 

The floods of Indus would not quell. 

Who strives with manly aim at first 

Grows wild as myrmidons of Hell. 

In vain some Spanish hearts rebel 

At cruel, foul, atrocious wrong. 

No sacred scene is holy long. 

Rapacious clans go riding past, 

With hopes and lives upon a cast — 

All spoil of earth is for the strong. 

As quaffs a poor, unhappy soul 

From out the seas's repulsive tide. 

Where briny deeps derisive roll — 

Where stars and wave the scene divide — 

And only quaffs to breed a thirst 

That burns him like imprisoned fire. 

So yellow gold — that ore accurst 

Inflames the votary's desire; 

His greed inspires, till men who gain 

A ruined race's golden store, 

Brood sullenly, with greed insane. 

Then hasten forth to slay for more. 

Could some vile wizard art unfold 

A dark Hell's-method mode of gain — 

Some plan born in a demon's brain 

To smelt this ore from human pain — 

They'd pour the blood of man to gold; 

Ay. kill till ships upon the main 

No more accursed ore would hold. 

Alas', that Colon e'er was born — 

On sons of Spain I heap my scorn. 



MEMORY 



To deeply think would be to weep- 
So let that savage tiger sleep. 



288 SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

ODE 

To a shark that cruised around the Pacific Mail steamer 
"Costa Rica," in the harbor of Champerico, Guatemala, 1874. 

Tremendous shark! 

That keepeth dark 
Abaft the "Costa Rica's" stern. 
Dost thou thy daily rations earn 
By hanging round with well-peeled eye, 
With ftns erect and tail awry. 
To snake in all the poor galoots — 
(Their breeches, buckles, hats and boots; 
Their bodies, limbs, and heads and necks) 
That tumble off our vessel's decks 
Into the blue and boundless main, 
And can't alas! get back again? 
Ts this thy mission, dreadful fish? 

Say! 
Ts -Man. devoured rare, the dish 
Thou dost prefer on which to dine. 
Above all others in thy line? 
What barbecue and strange festivity, 

gormand of the salty sea! 

Whence come thy lightning moves, alertness, mighty 

strength? 
Thy many feet of awful length. 
And glossy hide as tough as army beef? 
Thy molars ranged in bold relief 
On either side a massive jaw? 
Hath come of eating people raw? 

Say! 
Knowest thou not the moral law 
Forbids such provender for prey? 
Dost thou delight to gnash and slay 
From wantonness, or dost regret 
That evil circumstances bid thee sin? 
Dost say, on snatching victim from the wet, 
"He was a stranger and I took him in?" 
Hast thou a conscience, monster dread? 

1 rather think no pains disturb 
Thy peace of mind, or ever curb 
Thy lustful taste for human blood. 
Rapacious rover of the flood. 

Hast thou a stomach? Ah, too well 

We know thou hast! What tales they tell — 

These sailor men — of thy red deeds! 

On what strange meat our Caesar feeds 

We know too well. 
How often have we heard it said 
Thou canst digest, as well as bread. 
All kinds of mundane stuff, from horses' tails 




MRS. JOAQUIN MILLER 

This lady, the poet's first wife, claimed to have written many descriptive 
passages in the "Songs Of the Sierras," and to have assisted in the revis- 
ion of the whole book. Her former neighbors at Eugene City, Oregon, 
circulated a similar statement. The photo from which this picture is made 
bears date in her own handwriting of December 10, 1872. Appended are 
these lines: "Behold, there is more joy in my shadow than in my heart." 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 289 

To ancient mariners and kegs of nails. 
Why should such hideous monsters be, 
Their boarding-house the whole deep sea? 

Gormandizer rash, 

Hast ever tackled ocean hash? 
A motley dish of mystery 
Round which we mortals congregate 
So oft, nor ever penetrate 

Its secrets dire? 

Wouldst thou expire 
If many tons of this were crammed 
Into thy throat, and then were rammed 
Some 10 or 20 feet still further down? 
Though thou shouldst do thy level best, 
Thinkst thou, O shark, thou couldst digest 
This standard article of any town? 

Terrific shark! 

Why skirmish round our gallant bark. 

Appalling passengers and crew? 

Art seeking for an interview 

With some of us, or taking notes 

On everything around that floats. 

And wondering how it will do 

For those immense, capacious throats 

Thy tribe have used these many years? 

Art ever moved by mortal tears? 

Could any plea thy heart instill 

With tender touch of Pity's thrill? 

Methinks all flesh to thee appears 

A proper grist for thy great mill. 

How long in ocean's depths hast wallowed? 

Art thou the fish that Jonah swallowed? 
[The vessel gave a sudden lurch, and the bard fell over- 
board. Horrible to relate, the shark snapped him up in a 
moment. 1 



THE CHOICE WE :MAT)E 

Which pleases most the restless human heart. 
Proud Nature's guise or noble works of art? 
Look far away at Shasta's tow'ring peak — 
What fairer view would moody rover seek? 

'The mount's all right, my friend — its upper part. 
That well dressed lady there I call a work of art. 
You take the mountain summit over there — 
I'll homage pay unto the lady fair." 



SON CIS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

ELECiY IX A CITY (tKAVP:YARD 

'"Bacchus drowns more men than Neptune." 

Shrine of greatness! (ne'er attained), 
Of brilliant hopes! (that slowly waned), 
Of dazzling summits! (never gained). 
Booze-fighters brave await the blast 
Of Gabriel's trumpet horn; 
They did their best, but fell at last 
Before John Barleycorn. 
Weep, brothers, weep — with anguish when 
We sing the dirge: "It Might Have Been." 
Statesmen, heroes, moulder here; 
Thinkers, singers, lovers of good cheer — 
To sorrows and ill fortune born; 
Sons of Belial — of melody and rhyme; 
Each wandered off before his time. 
View not his tomb with idle scorn; 
He'll wake on Resurrection morn. 



TO AX OLD swp:etheart 

O, you have vanished from the world, 
And we shall meet, O never more! 
Where is that sweet and lissome girl 
Whose voice to me, in years of yore. 
Was Heaven's music in the air? 
Whose beauteous form Love's impress bore? 
Who mocked the sunshine with lier hair? 
Whose kisses of most pure desire 
Set all my youthful veins on fire? 
Gone from the world! And he who then 
Had all his own so blest a prize — 
He, too, is gone! No more shall men, 
In mortal scenes, 'neath azure skies, 
Behold again that self-same pair. 
They both are gone — almost in name. 
Alas! we are no more the same. 
Adieu! let that bright vision of the past 
Endure while life and memory last. 
If but we meet the vision flies. 



XEKO'S FEAST 



'Our noble Nero's pace is slow." 

•He had to kill his mother, yesterday, you know." 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

EXTERIXCI THE WORLD WAR 

[A Kansas Ditty.] 

What was the late election for? 
It brought the ladies out to vote 
To boom a presidential goat 
Who kept the country out of war. 
Ugly female wrecks, 
Zantippes old and maids unsexed, 
With politics are greatly vexed. 



THE BARD SPEAKS WELL OF HIMSELF 

Voices, omens, urge; and unseen powers 
Imperiously command me. 

I have had agonies and fearful regrets. 

My heart strings have been exquisite chords 

For fools to tear at. 

And fools are crueler than fiends. 

I am no carpet knight, 

Reared among maids and roses. 

No man has trod ruder ways than I have, 

Or longer persevered without hope. 

I have had pride, skill, determination unsurpassed. 

What have I won by these endeavors? 

I am no carpet knight — 
I have stood on the embattled line. 
I have helped resist stormers. 
And have stormed the foe. 
I have been so close to the foe 
I could touch him with my bayonet. 
Shielded by the unseen powers 
I bore a charmed life. 
Once deadly arms poised at my breast. 
"■ They were so close I dared not breathe. 

"Back to your line!" a foeman chief exclaimed. 
I went back, but bore my arms with me. 

I am marching through the Red Sea. 
Walls of death dismay on either side. 
And death awaits. 
I march forward, nevertheless. 
For it has been commanded. 

(The bard is still marching. The remainder of his jere- 
miad vanished in the earthquake at San Francisco. Good! 
Banzai! Hoop la! ) 



SONGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

THE (IRKAT AND ONLY JOHN L 

[Died February 2, 1918.1 

Spartacus, long passed away, 
Was merely Sullivan of later day — 
(Napoleon of the fistic fray! ) 
Those heroes of immortal Troy, 
INIere battlers like the Boston Boy. 
Hard fighting was their utmost joy. 

Hail and farewell, 
John L.l 



FEMININE srFFrvA(;E. 1010 

Feminine pajamas 

Wave high on the breeze 
Of the hen-ridden heaven 

Of the Kansas Pharisees. 
In the uttermost depths 

Of the Neutral Zone 
The daughters of Eve 

Have come to their own. 



AVASHIN(tT()N 

When passions wane and age creeps on, 
And all the bloom of life is gone. 
Though we disdain to stoop to tears. 
We know that he hath lost his years 
Whose life has been for self alone. 
One man in mould of Washington — 
Of Wisdom's pure, sagacious mind — 
Is worth to earth, to human kind. 
More than a million gay careers. 
To sloth or selfishness resigned. 
Ambition bows in haughty shame. 
At merest mention of his name. 



"THE LAST MAX" 

Save himself, the human race was gone; 

Its arts and fame, achievements — all! 

The globe was trembling to some awful doom. 

He gazed around on silent stars — 

Earth's ancient riddle was unread. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 293 

.MY LOST POEMS 

Thev vanished in a planet's throes — 
In San Francisco's burning passed away, 
But all the lore that mankind knows— 
All the rhyme and famous prose — 
Will some day vanish swift as they. 
Why weep about a lot of rhyme 
That only burnt before its time? 



UOVIXO LOVE 



Though mine thy thoughts more stainless far 
Than moonlit tides or rose's hue; 
Though mine thy smile— so like a star 
That pierces all the midnight through 
To light one lone, deserted spot; 
And mine the splendor of the rays 
Of thy dark eyes that baffle praise. 
That glow with fire from Heaven caught— 
Though mine thy wild, sweet spirit now— 
There'll be a day with sadness fraught, 
When each will muse with mournful brow. 
Or all, alas! will be forgot. 



HOLY BOOZEKS OX THE BOSPHORUS 

Send us money, precious money— 

'Tis Heaven's own request. 
Money! Money! merely money — 

Our noble band will do the rest. 



THE MARINER'S HOPE 

Eccentric orbs that widely shed 

Alarm in starry ocean skies; 

That menace constellations red, 

And startle space with mute surprise; 

That burn with baleful fires afar. 

Then plunge to darkened gulfs below. 

Surpass you not, O Polar Star, 

That faithful shines with peaceful glow. 

Thou beacon light where perils are. 

Thou Star of Hope where oceans flow. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

BLACK HAAVK'S ISLE 

[A youthful rime of revolt. Written in 1S67.] 

The fortress was a rugged pile 

Of rough-hewn logs and stone 

That stood upon a lovely isle 

In savage strength alone, 

And frowned from off a rocky shore 

Across a mighty river's tide 

Where virgin states no harvests bore, 

But prairies rolled in splendor wide, 

And red men roved, with regal sway — 

Uncultured, reckless, rude and free — 

Nor deemed then dawned an evil day 

To bid their birthright cease to be; 

To bid their broad, imperial lands 

Become an alien spoiler's prey 

Like treasures heaped for friendly hands 

But snatched by ruthless foes away. 

Ah! glorious life to dwell afar 

From Civilization's noisy mart, 

Where mad contentions ceaseless are 

That singe and sear the human heart. 

And warp it to a senseless thing 

That feels for kindred woe no pain, 

But nurses hate to scathe and sting. 

When only peace should reign. 

O scenes of greed! of cruel strife 

For soulless wealth or selfish power. 

Where Mammon robs uncertain life 

Of every bright and happy hour. 

And bids each nohle purpose die 

As gen'rous iminilse bids it live; 

And steels the heart to Sorrow's cry. 

And lifts the avenging blade on high 

When Pity wildly pleads forgive. 

O Avarice, with subtle hands 

You ply your fiendish master's trade. 

Where cities mar unhappy lands 

That primal force in beauty made. 

But not within the deserts free 

You bid the pomps of Nature fade. 

Nor can your reign untrammelled be 

Where hoary woodlands cast their shade. 

Where mountain streams in sunlight dance 

No minions vile of Care intrude. 

To wither with their baleful glance 

The hapi)y realms of Solitude. 

N"o! the deserts yet are free from Care; 

Their breezes bear no low refrain 

To bid the weary heart despair. 

Or wake anew the pangs of pain. 



■ IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 295 

O for a weird. Olympian power 

To mould this crowded world anew. 

The vasty plains should be the dower 

Of Penury and Sorrow's crew. 

Red Riot with his ragged horde 

Should range no more for spoil and prey, 

Nor Might unsheath his glitt'ring sword 

To bid the panting rabble stay. 

Pride should see her pampered knaves 

O'er their heaped-up plumage wail; 

Oppression with its cringing slaves 

Should perish in Destruction's gale: 

The captive have his heart's desire, 

The nomad roam without annoy; 

Lust should see her votaries expire 

'Mid tinsel pomps that deck their joy; 

Hypocrisy should vainly hide 

With cloak and mask its hideous form; 

Civilization, with brilliant crime allied, 

Should vanish in the wrathful storm. 

Every vestige of unnatural life 

Should be sternly swept away. 

And when the elements had ceased their strife, 

And the winged lightnings their vengeful play. 

Pitying heavens should kindly weep, 

And with green verdure robe the soil 

Where joyless serfs now sow and reap. 

Or sink beneath their ceaseless toil. 

Where gilded cities groan with crime, 

And Fashion holds her gaudy reign. 

Should dawn again a halcyon time, 

The forest lands be green again. 

The grand old streams, unmeant for slaves, 

Should murmur wild and lawless strains; 

As sunshine lit their silver waves. 

Go winding through unbounded plains. 

The vernal hills, once more reclaimed, 

Should bear profuse their grasses tall. 

Where countless herds should roam untamed, 

And be the common wealth of all. 

The stately crags, where threat'ning shines 

Dread enginry of pain and death, 

Should scarcely bear their weight of vines 

To woo the south wind's balmy breath. 

All Earth for all! not for a few 

Who rear them Babels like the fools of old, 

And thrust aside the good and true 

Who spurn their gods of senseless gold. 

No despot rules should fret the will. 

Or bid the careless wand'rer stay; 

No turbid stream or tiny rill 

Mark out the lines of haughty sway. 



296 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Xor cold restraints essay to chain 

Each impulse wild of mortal breast. 

But Freedom, like a glorious queen, should reign- 

Her laws the first, the wildest and the best. 

Ah! Earth for once should truly be 

What gray old sages oft have planned, 

And I\Ian for once so truly free 

That not a fruit on vine or tree 

But should thrive for any hand. 

Alas! this Paradise we all have missed. 
The youthful bard, we must insist, 
Wrote like a crazy Bolshevist. 



ArOSTROPHE 

[To a great court attendant.] 

Hail, Kay Reel! Thou with front name 

All the same as British king's. 

Hail! Vizier — not Grand, but inferior somewhat. 

Distorter of facts imperfectly known; 

Suppresser of truth, news, information — 

By imperial command. 

Boswell on a slight scale; 

Very slight. Prevaricator, camouflager; 

Expert in things not true. 

Nor probable, but utterly preposterous. 

Extracter of apothegms 

From useless and egotistical speeches 

Published at public expense, enormously piled on. 

Hail, Kay Reel! Hail and farewell! 

Apollyon is waiting for thee. 



PHILOSOPHY OF JESSE JAMES 

The special talents that secure a rope 

Are also requisite to win a star; 

To rob a scoundrel of his future hope, 

And send him howling to his Maker's bar, 

Is but to show the pious crowd 

That gathers round your gallows base, 

That had you fled the hangman's shroud 

You might have led in Glory's godlike chase. 

To cut a throat or fire a town. 

Or lead battalions on to death. 

Are varied routes to high renown. 

That empty bubble of mortal breath. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



HEROES OF SHILOH 

[Written before the Government gave attention 
to Shiloh field.] 

Within their far, forgotten graves 

Those silent heroes peaceful sleep. 

The rank wild grass above them waves. 

The wild wood vines above them creep; 

The sun by day, the moon by night, 

Shed o'er the scene a hallowed light. 

The very wind moves o'er each spot 

As conscious of the deeds they wrought 

With valiant hearts one awful day. 

All nature honors their poor clay 

That crumbles to the baser dust. 

And deems it but a sacred trust 

That naught shall break their long repose. 

Ah! where their friends? Ah! where their foes? 

Where are the banners that they bore? 

The dreadful arms whose sullen roar 

Shook all the earth for leagues away? 

Where are the lines they met in fray? 

The pomps that gilded that wild scene? 

The chieftains that with dauntless mien, 

And iron souls and faith serene. 

Led them upon the wrathful foe? 

The millions that in sad dismay 

And terror paused, yet feared to know 

The issue of that fearful day? 

The mighty pageant all is gone. 

And there they sleep from eve to dawn. 

From dawn to eve, forgotten quite. 

No gilded bronze or burial stone 

Is by the forest moss o'ergrown. 

No marble shaft of spotless white 

Recounts their fame with lofty line; 

No mourner steals to it by night 

To weep or sigh or e'en repine; 

No trump proclaims with lordly might 

That there they fell in bloody fight 

That still our Nation's stars should shine. 



MARC ANTONY 



Though Antony was quite a fool, no doubt. 
Such kind of men have not by any means run out. 
While women breathe, in vain your boasted rules. 
They'll own the world — they'll make mankind their fools. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

(JEX. (iEOKCxP: H. THOMAS 

Search in the days of palmy Rome 
For such a man — few have been since. 
Napoleon would have called him Prince, 
Then given him a ducal home. 
While monuments of glory stand, 
Let eloquence of song command 
Our children keep his memory green. 
Virginia was his native scene. 
When civil war swept o'er the land. 
Faint-hearted men with fear grew pale. 
How sweet to some was Treason's tale — 
They found a music in her voice. 
In vain she strove to sway his choice. 
He wavered not, like brilliant Lee, 
To vainly mourn his country's past, 
Nor weighed a chance, to err at last. 
For him one course alone could be. 
He drew his sword at Freedom's call, 
Nor weightier sword was ever cast, 
With giant force, in doubtful scale. 
Serene he took his humble post. 
Ere long to lead a mighty host. 
In Trial's hour his lips were still; 
His deeds proclaimed his patriot will — 
"Act well thy part though heavens fall." 
What were the fortunes of a state. 
To Freedom and his nation's fate? 
On every field where Thomas came, 
Confusion smote our country's foes, 
And winged Victory arose 
Through lurid cloud or battle flame, 
To crown him with immortal fame. 



h()Mp:wari) bound 

Our vessel in regalia brave 
Is floating on the billows white; 
With sable plume it rides the wave 
Impatient for its northern flight. 
O'er purple floods whose breakers lave 
The golden shores; o'er waters bright 
Whose isles are visions of delight — 
Whose beauty poets vainly tell — 
Green capes around, with vernal height. 
And vales that ravish mortal sight. 
Where idle races happy dwell; 
O'er seas afar — our course we thread. 
Our Nation's banner flies o'erhead — 
Seas, isles and summer lands, farewell I 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 



THE MARCH OF CDROXADO 

[The passage that follows is from a poem I lost. 
See Prose Addenda.] 

Xo waters flow — no streams or limpid rills. 

All treeless, bare, volcanic, are the hills 

That line our way; the mountains are but rock 

Thrown up in air by some rude seismal shock 

That in old eras tore the land in twain. 

Then heaped and piled it all in one again. 

Huge lava blocks bestrew the hillsides o'er. 

Behind, a waste — Inferno lies before. 

Each war steed moans, then hastens on half blind 

With all the glare that falls before, behind. 

Around — all o'er this arid, stony land 

That seems new flung from Nature's hateful hand, 

It is too vile, too drear, for home of man. 

The plains are heated white — they smoke all day 

With fervor of the beams that o'er them play. 

Alas! that e'er this fearful march began. 

Our heavy armor is all heated through. 

At eve, the air burns up the very dew. 

Across mysterious vales that shine so hot, 

Is trace of race that we encounter not. 

Deep channels hewn with lavish care, 

In which no blessed streams of water are. 

We find these olden rivers everywhere. 

Some castle walls we saw in one weird place. 

But not a welcome sight of human face. 

In savage mountains tall are human signs — 

Habitations, tunnels, buried mines. 

And yet no slave the precious dust refines, 

A strange, uncanny, sterile, weary zone 

Is this — each rueful scene bestrewn with stone — 

And yet it hath, somewhere, a royal throne. 

Brave Coronado leads us on; the way 

Is where old heathen border annals tell 

Enchanted cities are with towers gray, 

Where worshipers of pagan planets dwell. 

When cities, treasures, gems, are Spanish prey. 

We'll cool in crystal bowls of precious wine 

The lips that now for some coarse draught repine. 

Though rude the game, for treasures vast we play. 

Have courage, knights, upon this lonesome way. 



OUR PROTEAN MASTER 

Don't view him with abhorrence. 
With hatred so intense. 
Next month he'll change opinions. 
And hop across the fence. 



SONC}S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

THE DREAM OE COUNT POKTALA 

[Discovery of San Francisco Bay.] 

On this unrivalled wave, in martial pride. 

The natives of the Christian world might ride. 

Imperial armadas here might' float 

From every shore where Glory sounds her note. 

No dang'rous reef conceals a cruel crest. 

In purple tides that flow to Ocean's breast. 

Glorious pathway to the western seas, 

Outshining all the famous views that please 

Where glow the Pillars of great Hercules. 

On this bright way Olympian gods might glide 

In stately barges to vast oceans wide, 

Nor deem the scene beneath celestial pride. 

How grand it is! In vain the feeble praise 

Of painter's brush or gifted poet's lays. 

Here has Creator's hand, at one great sweep, 

Devised for nations of sublimer days 

The noblest haven of the vasty deep. 

How strange it should so long unknown remain! 

A vision — prophecy — sweeps o'er my brain. 

Around me now no savage landscape lies — 

Palatial domes to bluest heavens rise. 

A Tyrus, Venice, meets enraptured eyes — 

A Carthage fair — where ships of earth convene 

With costly wares from every mortal scene. 

Yea, fleets of Indus bright and far Cathay 

Will some time crowd this well-enfolded bay. 

Rich argosies from lands to us unknown 

Will fill their sails to reach this austral zone. 

From South and North and far from foamy West 

Uncounted ships will pass o'er ocean's breast 

In anxious hope their alien wealth to pour, 

With lavish zeal upon this favored shore. 

Here shall great population, grandeur, dwell; 

A capital of ocean commerce be, 

A queen of power on the western sea — 

Nor oriental shore its busy pomps excel. 

All rival zones will fill its crowded mart, 

Its halls will glow with miracles of art. 

The fabrics, products, ores, of every clime 

Will reach this Tyrus of the future time. 

Above the scene the flush of glory soars; 

Lo! populations throng the argent shores. 

The vista vast with life and splendor fills, 

For glittering fanes are on the stately hills; 

Wide streets resound with traffic's busy hum, 

And Progress roars in eons yet to come. 

From withered Thebes and once imperial Rome 

Shall Art and Honor fly to find a home. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 

Commercial Empire here shall rear its throne, 

To reign o'er shores and seas and isles unknown; 

From shifting snows to equatorial sign 

The sails will fill, the mighty fleets align. 

All shines revealed — the scene, the future time, 

The queenly city in her pomp sublime.' 

Not all the gold the Aztec hills contain 

Is worth to thee this noble prize, O Spain! 

cavaliers! O knights of high disdain. 
For nobler spot ye sail and search in vain. 

1 cast away each petty wreath I claim 

To link this Bay with Count Portala's name. 



THE DPvEAiNI OF LOHD rARKHURST 

I wish I possessed a billion of gold. 

Like an Arab my tattered tent I'd fold, 

No more at laggard Fortune I would scold, 

Seas I would sail like Captain Kidd the bold. 

And revel and roam regardless of cost. 

Where'er an empurpled ocean rolled. 

By my fleet ship that ocean would be crossed. 

Of cedar from hills of Lebanon old 

My ship I would build for tempest or frost; 

With gold its cabins should be all embossed; 

Its sails should be silk — O down in its hold. 

In barrels and casks champagne should be rolled. 

The daintiest fare by gourmands extolled 

Should daily regale my sailor boys bold; 

With oceans of grog and juice of the lime 

I'd keep the rogues drunk two thirds of the time, 

And issue commands in musical rhyme 

Whene'er they endeavored the masts to climb. 

Most beautiful girls I'd gather on board. 

Each Amazon armed with her tongue and a sword. 

The queens of the land I'd coax to embark 

For a daring cruise on a Poet's Ark. 

While their songs dissolved the ocean in smiles, 

We'd sail in quest of the Fortunate Isles. 

If ever our ship was unpleasantly tossed, 

We'd baffle Aeolus with feminine wiles, 

And revel and roam for a thousand miles, 

And all get sober when the ship got lost. 



302 SON C;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

MY SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 

In old age our vices leave us, and we think we have grown 
virtuous.— B.i/ro??. 

What blessing crowns my natal day? 
What ample joy? What quiet bliss? 
My greatest boon, I think, is this — 
The belles and dames and ladies gay 
Ignore me quite — they keep away. 
Without a friend in Cupid's court; 
No bother now, no sinful sport, 
I'm homeward bound and near to port.' 
Wine and women, jest and song. 
No longer tempt to pathways wrong. 
What grievous ills a man escapes 
In sailing round Life's final capes. 
There's not much fun, but scenes are blest 
With solitude, content, and mental rest. 



TRAJAN AT THE PERSIAN (il LF 

[Written on December 9th, 19(20, when I reached 
the age of 76. | 

Upon the shore of that far sea he paused. 
And watched the sunset rays glint o'er the wave. 
In massive armor plates of brass and steel. 
And rich-enamelled gold, erect he stood. 
His tow'ring form betrayed no sign of age. 
And yet his spacious brow bore marks of care; 
His fearless eyes had melancholy gaze. 
Why, O Trajan bold, is now thy spirit sad? 
Why gaze so wistfully on Persian sea? 
Rome Avas ]\Iistress of the World, and Trajan ruled, 
With undisputed sway, o'er all the lands of Rome. 
Three seasons now had Trajan warred to reach 
This far, remote, and long defended sea. 
Assyria, Mesopotamia, Parthia fell. 

And richer lands beside. Here stood he unopposed at last, 
And gazed in silence o'er the tranquil wave. 
■Where goes yon vessel there with snowy sails?" 
He said to Arab chief who waited at his side. 
•To India, lord,' 'was low and brief reply. 
'Twas thus I thought," and long again he mused. 
Then waved in gesture to a band of knights 
Who stood aloof to bide his pleasure there. 
•Tomorrow, Sirs," he said, "we counter-march. 
We take the way that leads to distant Rome. 
Yon bark you see is off for India shores. 
This conquered land is vast — is limitless. 



IDYLS OF BOHEMIA 303 

I have a soldier's pride in greatness of 

Imperial Rome, whose boundaries my sword 

Hath greatly widened out. It was a dream 

Of early days with me, to lead victorious arms 

Till India fell. The Macedonian king 

Reached the verge of that far eastern land, 

And then was stayed. With one accord 

His valiant soldiers did refuse to march 

On any course that did not lead to Grecian soil. 

Great Alexander raved, implored, in rage he wept, 

But not a man would change; so counter-march 

Was made. My years, my lords, are sixty-three, 

And Alexander died at thirty-two. 

When safe return is made to Babylon, 

At Alexander's shrine we'll sacrifice. 

And offer honors for his splendid youth. 

I am too old, my lords, to march to India now." 

In triumphal guise he made his slow return. 

Another war he fought to swift success, 

And then, at sixty-five, he died. 

His India dream, which long had given bitter thought, 

And poisoned happy hours, was left unrealized. 

The trace of mighty things he did is gone. 

Time and dust of ages screen them o'er. 

Where cities vast arose are silent mounds of sand; 

Where proudest legions marched not one lone man is 

found. 
Of all those paladins not e'en a bone remains. 
Trajan — triumphs, pomps and pageants of his time — are 

gone. 
He left a name — which well nigh tells it all. 
The desert horseman flying by is greater king than he. 
All that mightiest men achieve must vanish thus. 

At seventy years Tamerlane had all Assyria, 
India, Persia, Asia, at his feet, 
But off he rode to seize the Chinese throne; 
En route, on barren, chilly plains he died. 

The laurels of old age are worthless bays, 

A mockery of brilliant early hopes. 

if won, their shrivelled flowers, withered leaves, 

Are barely worth a thought or final blow. 

Win glory in the flush and bloom of youth. 

Or not at all, nor view it as a prize. 

Vain is Glory's chase, at best, save for amusement 

Of an idle man. 



PROSE ADDENDA 



PROSE ADDENDA 307 

TIIP] SOKKOV.S OF OTHP^KS 

"Go tell your troubles to a policeman." 
Consider them told, and now for the sorrows of others. 

In December. 1917, Samuel Eberly Gross, a Chicago real 
estate dealer, charged Edmund Rostand, [he famous French 
writer, with having plagiarized "Cyrano de Bergerac" from 
a play Gross produced in 1910 entitled "The :Merchant Of 
Cornville." In the United States District Court at Chicago, 
Mr. Gross fully established his claim. 

On December 30th, 1919, an associated press dispatch from 
London, Eng., announced the death of Waller M. Fisher, 
formerly of San Francisco, and added that "he claimed to have 
written a great part of a noted History of the Pacific States, 
the authorship of which is credited to Herbert Bancroft." In 
bringing out his invaluable "History Of The Pacific States," 
a series of books, Hubert Howe Bancroft employed many per- 
sons. They worked in various capacities. Who did the most 
of the writing it would be hard to say. He squandered a 
fortune in his enterprise. In 1881 his brother Told me that 
the financial returns had been disappointing, discouraging. 
For his great efforts and great loss, Bancroft deserves undis- 
puted honors of authorship. 

In 1887 Dr. Nicol Gigliotti published in a newspaper at 
Naples, Italy, a poem entitled "Fate." Eighteen years after- 
wards he came to this country, and was surprised to learn 
that his poem, translated into English, had become the prop- 
erty of Senator John J. Ingalls of Kansas. Under the title of 
"Opportunity" it was widely celebrated. President Roosevelt 
kept an "autograph copy" of it, framed, and signed by Ingalls, 
hanging on the wall in the White House. Dr. Gigliotti pro- 
tested in a Philadelphia paper, but in every poetical collec- 
tion, and. in every school book, the poem continues to be 
credited to Ingalls. The distinguished Senator never pub- 
lished any other poem. "To him that hath it shall be given, 
and from him that hath not, even that which he hath shall 
be taken." 

On June 10, 1915, the Omaha "Bee" revived a matter of 
the past, as follows : In July, 1863, "Arthur's Home Maga- 
zine" published a poem entitled "There Is No Death." It 
was -written by J. L. McCreery, a native of lowa. Its popu- 
larity was unbounded. It was copied into newsi)apers in 
every part of the United States, and wa? reproduced abroad 
in every land where the Eixglish tongue is spoken. In some 
manner it came to be credited to Lord Lytton, the British 
novelist, and with that mistake attached it went into school 
books, and into scores of miscellaneous collections of poetry. 
Mr. McCreery protested; the Lippincotts investigated, and 
awarded the authorship to ^McCreery. Yet, in millions of vol- 
umes of all kinds, the poem has been passed on to posterity 
with Lord Lytton's name attached. 
, A long time ago Josiah Gregg, a roving newspaper man, 



308 SONCiS OF A MAN \N' H O FAILED 

published many sketches portraying the romance and dangers 
of the old Santa Fe Trail. He ended by publishing a book 
entitled "The Western Prairies." Poorly managed, the ven- 
ture failed, but writers of all kinds pounced upon his mine 
of freshness, beauty and vivid description, and pillaged the 
book from beginning to end. The noted novelist Captain 
Marryat joined in the onslaught. In Marryat's tale of "Mon- 
sieur Violet." Gregg's glow^ing portrayals of the wild West 
were "swiped bodily" and he was compelled to go on record 
with a protest, "lest he might some time later be charged 
with plagiarism by Captain Marryat." Nobody paid any at- 
tention to him. 

Who wrote "The Call Of Kansas"? In May, 1907. it was 
published anonymously in the Lawrence (Kan.) "Journal." 
It then appeared in the Kansas City "Star", and was widely 
copied and admired. The Lawrence "Journal" then editorially 
announced that Miss Esther M. Clark of Chanute, Kan., was 
authoress of the poem, and she afterwards included it in a 
volume of verse she published. She claimed to have written 
the poem in California, while homesick for the green and 
beautiful prairies of Kansas. Thereupon Mrs. Clark-Karr of 
Hutchinson, Kan., filed a counter claim. She said she pub- 
lished the poem in the Hutchinson (Kan.) "Gazette" in 1900. 
"not, possibly, in exactly the same language, but with every 
thought as given in Miss Clark's^ effort." The Kansas His- 
torical Society made stern demands for proofs of authorship. 
I never learned how the dispute ended — was too busy to find 
out. The poem is very beautiful, and is worth quarreling 
about. 

During the world war, "Hoch Der Kaiser," a burlesque 
poem, had great popularity, and was recited at military 
gatherings on three continents. The first lines read: 

"Der Kaiser of dis Faterland, 
Tnd Gott on high, all dings command. 
Ve two — ach! Don't you understand? 
Meinself — und Gott." 

The late Rear Admiral Coghlan, of the American Navy, 

recited this rhyme at a banquet, and was always afterwards 

'referred to as its author. That a Canadian named Rose wrote 

and published it at Montreal, but died before it became 

noted, is now generally conceded. 

Minnie .Myrtle Miller, first wife of Joaquin :\Iiller. was 
somewhat deficient in culture, from lack of early advantages, 
but was a woman of great natural ability. Her acquaintance 
with Miller began from poetical contributions she sent to a 
country i)aper he was publishing at Eugene City, Oregon. 
She claimed to ha\;e written part of the "Songs Of The Sierras," 
and to have assisted in the |)reparation of the whole volume. 
This was Miller's best book and most successful one. When 
it was completed he deserted her and her children, and with 
$2,000 in gold in his wallet, went to London and won fame. 



PROSE ADDENDA 309 

This is what she told me, and I believed her. Her whole life 
was unfortunate. She died in a New York hospital. 

]\Iany years ago a noted Chicago preacher delivered — as was 
his wont — a brilliant sermon. A canny old Scotchman in the 
audience scratched his pate a while, much puzzled, and finally 
decided that he had either heard or read that sermon before. 
Hunting through a lot of old books at home, at last he found 
the sermon, and in the daily papers of the city he made the 
piracy public. "The church hates a scandal," and the preacher 
had to go. On Memorial Day. 1914, at Arlington Cemetery, D. C, 
a distinguished member of the United States Senate delivered 
a fine oration. It soon transpired that an oration almost 
like it had been delivered at Lincoln's tomb (Springfield, Ills.) 
two years previously, by Jasper T. Darling of Chicago. In 
parallel quotations the Chicago "Herald" showed that both 
orators had not only spoken in similar style, but had often 
used precisely the same language, word for word. Mr. Darling 
saved himself by having used the language first. The Senator 
tried to explain that the great number of quotation marks 
he had used in his manuscript, had escaped the hearing of 
his auditors. 

The "Literary Digest" of May 15, 1920, says that "Sermon 
Factories" are in regular operation at various cities in the 
East "where clergymen who lack in imagination and strenu- 
csity obtain ready-made hand-me-down sermons at moderate 
prices." Special prayers, lectures, rhetorical and evangelistic 
exhortations, etc., are also abundantly supplied. The "Chris- 
tian Century" concedes and laments the truth of the state- 
ment. An expounder of the gospel no longer needs brains. 
Only a roll of money is required. 

An inter-state collegiate oratorical contest took place at 
Sioux Falls, South Dakota, on March 26, 1915, at which 
J. A. .lohnson of the University of South Dakota won an ora- 
torical trophy and a cash prize of $40. He was soon charged 
with plagiarizing the greater part of his oration. Judge 
Gaynor of the Iowa Supreme Court and Professor Lardner 
of the Northwestern University investigated, and ordered the 
"victor" to return the trophy and the money, which he did. 

Several years ago the "Daily Post" of Washington City, on 
the authority of U. S. Senator Bacon of Georgia, published 
a story of Lee's magnanimity at Gettysburg. (All civil war 
stories are located at Gettysburg.) The incident really oc- 
curred at Corinth, IMississippi; the wounded soldier was a 
comrade of my own regiment; the Confederate commander 
was General Sterling Price of Missouri; and I published the 
incident in full, forty years ago, in the San Francisco 
"Chronicle." 

On the 18th of January, 1915, at Washington City, occurred 
the death of Col. John A. Joyce, aged 72. An associated 
press dispatch may be summarized thus: He had lived at the 
national capital half a century; had been generally known as 
'the poet of Washington;' was familiar to all by his long, 



31() SO\(}S OF A MAN W FI O FAILED 

white, flowing locks; he hud published many books, biograph- 
ical and poetical; he was especially famed as the author 
of the vt-rses "Love And Laughter," known to the English- 
speaking world by the opening lines: 

"Laugh and the world laugh?; with you; 
Weep, and you weep alone." 

The dispatch added: "His claim has been disputed, and the 
controversy at one time attracted wide attention." 

As tlie poetic lines referred to appear in a volume issued 
by a "reputable publishing house" with the name of Ella 
Wheeler Wilcox attached, the poor Colonel doubtless often 
wept alone. He had no "name" to speak of, and IMrs. Wilcox 
had, so it was more profitable to the publisher to have the 
lines written by Mrs. Wilcox. Like Providence, the book 
pirate "moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform." 
"Custer" i.< not the only military poem Mrs. Wilcox wrote. 
In the "Cosmopolitan" Magazine of September, 19L5, thus 
she wailed: 

"And there were shameful things; 
Soldiers and forts, industries of death. 
And devil-ships, and loud-winged devil birds. 
All bent on slaughter and destruction." 

To regard soldiers and forts and airplanes as "shameful 
things," scarcely denotes a martial spirit. 

In Virginia City, Nevada, in other days, there was a bright 
newspaper man who canje to be widely known as Dan DeQuille. 
His humorous productions made mirth everywhere. At la.it 
he wrote a bulky volume about mining and other |)icfuresque 
scenes and industries, and bethought him of a publisher. In 
the east he had a friend who was fast growing rich and re- 
nowned in the book-writing and publishing line. He wrote 
to his friend. "Send on the book," was_ the prompt rei)ly. 
Dan sent it. All the brilliant, bright, amusing features dis- 
api)eared from its pages, and the book was so loaded down 
witli dry bullion statistics and other such rubbish that Dan 
didn't know his own book when he finally saw it in print. 
If millionaire Mackay had not, as a kindly favor, bought 
five hundred copies, Dan would have been badly in debt. The 
book was killed, of cowrse, and a possible rival removed. 
Also, Dan was cured of the deplorable habit of writing books. 

Do the gods of literature stoop to such practices? Yes, 
if there's any money in it. I might as well mention the 
literary friend. He was none other than Mark Twain. 

Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd, a popular western fiction writer, 
says: "I have no illusions about the class of my work, or 
the work cf my contemporaries. It is not literature. It is 
the result of business conditions. 1 supply the demand. 1 
sell my product the same as soap or furniture. With most 
modern authors, writing is not an art but a business. They 
peddle their wares as other people peddle merchandise. They 
seek the best markets. It does not require genius nor even 



PROSE ADDENDA * 311 

a high order of talent. Any one of average intelligence can 
write saleable stuff, if time is given to the task." 

No longer a matter of fame, honor, romance, lofty sentiment, 
and other relics of antediluvian times. O American Litera- 
ture, hast thou sunk to this? The dismayed and bewildered 
author finds himself up against a mere case of commerce and 
manufacturing. In eras past, poets wrote for fame; from 
patriotic or religious motives, political entliusiasm; for some 
proud or noble purpose. Now writing is a low, obsequious 
trade; a species of traffic, truck-peddling. Ideas, opinions, 
pathos, diction, are not of high account. "Stuff" is wanted, 
stuff suited for the "market"; literary hay, fodder for the 
reading animals. Alas! our degenerate age and degenerate 
land. 

The May number of the "Bookman" (this year), contains 
the advertisement of a Milwaukee firm that is ready to "pre- 
pare articles, speeches, lectures, and special addresses for all 
occasions." Why not manufacture presidential messages, guber- 
natorial messages, prayers, political excoriations, special out- 
bursts of profanity for enraged voters, etc., etc.? The field 
is limitless. O, American Literature! again we weep for thee. 
A low, vile trade hast thou become. Only fallen kings, ex- 
Kaisers, and rich men like myself, can put forth real opinions, 
instead of thinking as the book publisher desires. 

Let us repeat with Job: "O that mine enemy would write 
a book!" Wish him all the trouble you can. What is the 
use of more books? Well, there isn't any great need of them. 
Walk through a famous library. See splendid productions 
stacked up that nobody looks at — covered with dust — perhaps 
with mold. If a man of wealth and leisure should give ten 
or twelve hours a day to steady, persistent, industrious read- 
ing, and should read undisturbed till the undertaker came 
in to bury him, he could never begin to read one-tenth of the 
grand books that have been printed — modern, classic, original, 
translated. What's the use of more books? Read the old 
ones. A new author's only excuse should be that he has a 
school book that contains no propaganda, or that lie an- 
nounces a great scientific discovery, opposes a great evil, 
seeks to advance a great reform, or otherwise aims to really 
benefit mankind. Outside of that, read the daily papers, and 
all that you can get time to read of the old books that are 
being totally forgotten. 

Gail Hamilton, a near relative of Hon. James G. Blaine, 
had brilliant success as a writer. Wronged by certain pub- 
lishers, she issued a volume entitled "The Battle Of The 
Books," and made unpleasant disclosures, after which she 
was little heard of. The "book trade" quietly "put her out.'' 

With a great staff of secretaries, scribes, researchers, copy- 
ists, collaborators, etc., about him, Alexandre Dumas run a 
literary sweat-shop and veritable book factory. Well known 
writers like Auguste Maquet, Pier Angelo Fiorentino. Paul 
Bocage, Paul ^^leurice, and other men of talent assisted. Con- 



312 SONCJS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

veniences abounded. In this way a multitude of books reached 
the public, bearing the name of Dumas as author. In a 
squabble that got into court, it was iiroven that the name 
of Dumas "appeared on the title page of more novels than 
could be produced by one man if he worked incessantly at his 
desk, day and night, for the whole 3(>.") days in a year." The 
income of Dumas rose to $200,000 per annum, but his literary 
slaves got little of the money. He squandered it on himself, 
and on unworthy parasites and associates, and died poor. 
Of the books bearing his name, it would be impossible now to 
tell which ones he really wrote. 

At New York City in 1905, David Belasco, the noted play- 
wright, was forced to publicly admit that he had been in the 
habit of signing his name to magazine articles he never 
wrote, and not even a page of which he had ever read. The 
matter obtained publicity because one article had been previ- 
ously printed. The real author rebelled, and — what was more 
to the purpose — was able to prove his case. The real author 
of a book is often unknown to the public. "Leslie's Monthly" 
says: "The conservative old trade of book publishing is 
honey-combed by men who, using the advertising page as 
a gaming table, speculate in authors as other gamblers do in 
ivory chips." 

The authorship of the noted Southern war song "The 
Bonnie Blue l^'Iag" was claimed by two persons — by Annie 
C. Ketcham of Kentucky, and by Henry McCarthy, a song 
writer. The dispute was never settled. The authorship of 
"Beautiful Snow" is still in doubt. 

In a collection of "American Poems" edited by Augustus 
White I^ong of Princeton University, the famous Civil War 
poem, "The Blue And The Gray," is credited to Francis 
Miles Finch, a graduate of Yale College. The poem has long 
been believed to be the production of a gifted Roman Catholic 
clergyman. 

In commenting on the writings of Philip Freneau, an early 
American poet. Professor Long quotes "this line: 

"The hunter and the deer — a shade." 

The professor then asserts that Thomas Campbell, the 
famous British poet, stole this line entire from Freneau, with- 
out changing a word. Professor Long continues: "Sir Walter 
Scott also borrowed a line from Freneau, and Professor Tyler 
says that an English lady took bodily one of Freneau's poems 
and i)ublished it as her own. Such marks of attention are 
flattering to the early American poet." 

Even blind Homer is on defence.. It is not positively cer- 
tain who wrote the story of Troy. Antiquarians say that 
many bards contributed to the tales and legends that Homer 
only ])ut together in proper shape and improved somewhat. 
The Book of Job, we are told, is what remains of an old 
Chaldean drama — a pagan production. As a preface to his 
'Temple Of Fame" Alexander Pope says: "The hint of the 



PROSE ADDENDA 313 

following piece was taken from Chaucer's House of Fame." 
Literary evolution. 

In my days of youthful ardor, soon after I had donned a 
village editor's crown of thorns, a liberal advertiser called in 
a glow of enthusiasih, with a poem he wished me to publish. 
It had been written by his son, he told me, then a student 
at a well known college of a nearby State, and had been read 
at the graduating exercises of the institution, exciting much 
applause. The father was proud of the matter. I glanced 
over the poem with interest. 

"Sir," I said, "I'll print it with pleasure. Your son is a 
poet — a real one. Tell him to write more. Bring it to me. 
I'll print anything he writes." 

The production was "The Bells of Shandon" — to this day 
one of my greatest favorites. A few days after the poem 
was in print, with editorial laudations, a son of the Green 
Isle, in homely blouse and overalls, modestly entered. He 
quickly convinced me that Father Prout wrote "The Bells of 
Shandon." Much vexed, I declared my purpose to thoroughly 
set the matter right in the next issue of the paper. 

"Xo, I wouldn't," my visitor advised. "It'l make the old 
man feel bad. Everybody knows who wrote 'The Bells Of 
Shandon.' " 

So the affair passed off in gloomy silence, but no more 
poems reached me for publication. 

Kant avers that a really original idea comes only once 
in course of centuries. Almost everything has been thought 
of, and "there is nothing new under the sun. " "The jokes 
the Greeks laughed at in the seige of Troy are still floating 
around in modernized form." Under like circumstances men 
often have the same ideas. Still, it is improbable that two 
men in widely different localities would think out a whole 
book in precisely the same way, at nearly the same time, 
and happen to offer it to the same publisher — without some 
human agency in the matter. In the pursuit of coin, "coinci- 
dence" should not be made a cloak for all kinds of rascalities. 
Napoleon distrusted a brilliant courtier, and said: "He lies 
too much. One may very well lie sometimes, but always is 
too much." Gobbling a whole book is too much of a "coinci 
dence." 

That complaints about ill treatment by publishers receive 
little or no attention from the public press is not strange. 
A narrative of ill usage is usually tedious and uninteresting. 
An editor has no time to investigate such matters, nor is he 
situated always to do so, nor is he at liberty to write offhand 
about every man's painful misfortunes. The world is full of 
unredressed wrongs. It is not the editor's business to set 
them right — not all of them, anyhow. So he is silent, if, 
indeed, he reads such fulminations at all. 

Great are the tragedies of genius! Robert T. Paine, an 
American sculptor, took a mallet and knocked to dust a 
huge clay model of Neptune on which he had toiled for ten 



314 SONC;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

years. The god with his trident, mermaids, chariot, fiery 
steeds — ail majesty and beauty — fell to insensate dust. 
"Lookl" said Paine. "This is my life work. Of what use 
is it to me now? On the floor above my wife lies dead — a 
suicide — victim of hope too long deferre'd. ^lerit has no ap- 
preciation here. I have made medals, designs and sculptures 
for men whose reputations are secure. What matter if mv 
thought, ability, soul, went into their work — had vivid ex- 
pression there. I had to have bread for wife and little ones. 
Now I am done. Life is nothing to me now." 

Often inventors toil for years in penury and starvation to 
work out ideas rich with benefits to mankind. At last the 
goal is near. In quest of aid, they divulge secrets long con- 
cealed. Trusted ones betray, snatch golden ideas, wear the 
bays, and reap the great rewards. The real inventor dies 
in poverty, obscurity and scorn of men. A few years ago a 
St. Louis paper published an account of more than a dozen 
such cases. One of these inventors, a Frenchman, died in 
actual starvation. They who stole his ideas rolled in wealth. 
In 1793 Eli Whitney revolutionized cotton culture and cotton 
industries by inventing the cotton gin. He enriched millions 
of men but made not a dollar for himself. 

Davis W. Entriken died at Kenneth Square, Pennsylvania, 
on the olst of July, 1919, in the 94th year of his age. For 
years he struggled to invent a successful mowing and harvest- 
ing machine. At last he produced invaluable primary devices 
and wrought as great a revolution in the grain fields of the 
North as the cotton gin had wrought in the plantations of the 
South, for his vital ideas are used in all the mowing and reap- 
ing machines that are sold to-day. Toiling in poverty, he se- 
cured no letters of patent, but was gulled by the verbal promise 
of a royalty of $20 for eich machine manufactured. Had he 
been properly secured, his share of the spoils would have 
been mere than .$30,000,000. He was not secured at all, but 
died in poverty and obscurity. 

In July, 1915, a communication appeared in an Omaha 
paper, over a signature, complaining that the secrets of in- 
ventors are constantly sold from the Patent Office at Wash- 
ington City to wealthy corporations that vastly profit thereby. 
Particulars were given in corroboration. 

A man to me unknown wrote these lines: "Read the 
tragedies of invention. Men of superior mental power study 
out great inventions to lighten labor. They have faith in 
themselves and in the machines they work on. They toil for 
weary years, taxing splendid powers to the limit. They en- 
danger health or ruin it. They endure the direst poverty; 
their families suffer. When toil and effort have been ex- 
pended, and hardships have been borne that exceed belief, 
they perfect their process or invention. Then a richer man 
steps in. tears from their nerveless fingers the coveted prize, 
reaps the reward, and with brutal laughter casts out the 
ruined inventor. Again and again has this tragedy been 



PROSE ADDENDA 315 

enacted." It is the same in literary fields. 1 have seen the 
world shower plaudits and honors en persons who needlessly 
plundered me. It is idle to complain. You will only be 
laughed at. 

In the District Court at Lincoln, Neb., in June, 1921, 
James L. Hand made claim that the officers of a certain com- 
pany named had damaged him to the extent of $.50,000 by 
'■fraudulently discovering a secret process for making bat- 
teries" which he had inA'ented and patented. Result of the 
trial unknown to me. 

Edison has been kept at law continually to even partially 
protect his inventions. He has spent several fortunes in 
trying to do so. 

In February, 1915, a board of examiners of the U. S. Patent 
Office, decided that General H. Curtiss of the regular army 
did net invent the hydro-aeroplane, but that a poor cabinet 
maker of Staten Island, X. Y.. named Albert S. Janin, was 
the real inventor. 

I could fill pages with data like this — fill a whole volume. It 
is with books as it is with inventions. 

Articles appear occasionally in the daily press lauding 
the great demand that exists for book manuscripts, and prais- 
ing the tempting field open to new writers. The "adviser" 
of a prominent publishing house estimates that "of the great 
mass of manuscripts annually submitted to American pub- 
lishers, only one-and-one-half per cent are published. This 
does not mean that the others are worthless, but — . It take.s 
a sale of about five thousand copies to pay expenses, and 
unless such a sale is certain, publication is not worth while. 
A successful author dictates almost any sort of terms, and is 
often the object of keen rivalry on the part of publishers, and 
often receives large sums in advance royalties." 

Why is there such a ravenous demand for manuscripts? 
In some cases, it is to secure fresh and "marketable" ideas 
that may be handed over to writers of established fame, who 
will promptly get them into print, and thereby own them. 
"Cash paid for bright ideas," is an advertisement that often 
appears in Xew York papers. A good book, skillfully re- 
vamped by one of these "successful authors," would be greedily 
seized by an unscrupulous publisher. Stenographers and 
typewriters can take the cream of an unpublished work in 
twenty-four hours. The copyright law affords no protection 
to unpublished matter. Unprinted stuff can be pkindered 
with impunity. Subordinates of a publisher (without his 
knowledge or consent) often resort to such practices. 

An editor employed for the purpose perceives that a book 
has force, originality, interest, brilliancy, new ideas — market- 
able stuff of all sorts — but nobody has heard of the writer. 
He has toiled for years, perhaps, to produce this book. Yet it 
is not entirely up to the status demanded because the author 
has no "name." The book needs a "name" attached to it, and 
it will then make a hit and make money. How simple a 



316 SONGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

matter to take the life, the cream of the book— have the vital 
essence reproduced in a little different form by a writer of 
fame and popularity. '"There is money in it" — for the pub- 
lisher, and money is what he is after. The person defrauded 
has no legal remedy, and the public will laugh at his 
"ridiculous complaints" — if he is fool enough to make any. 
To counterfeit a book is easier than to counterfeit a coin; 
is not dangerous in the least, and is often a thousand times 
more profitable. 1 have seen the American people shower 
adulations on persons whom I knew had done such work. 

It will be a consolation to disappointed authors to know 
that reefs and shoals and losses often come to publishers. 
They also have their trials. When the famous Beecher-Tilton 
scandal suddenly jarred New York uity to its foundation 
stones, Henry Ward Beecher was under contract to write a 
"Life of Christ" for a leading subscription book concern. A 
"life of Christ" — a very good one — was already in existence 
in the New Testament, and was accepted by millions of people 
as "the Word of God." Still, it was thought Mr. Beecher 
might make some improvements on the literary task of the 
Author of the Universe. One volume was issued and had 
a large sale. Mr. Beecher was engaged on the second \olume 
when the great Tilton scandal exploded. The frantic pub- 
lisher rushed to the studio of the great divine, and with 
tears exclaimed: "O, Beecher! Beecher! This will knock 
the Life of Christ higher than a kite." 

The second volume was never issued. 

Faith in booksellers caused the financial ruin of Sir Walter 
Scott, and made his last days miserable. Publishers are 
doubtless no greedier than the hacks they often employ. The 
law of "the survival of the fittest," keen competition, neces- 
sities of the trade, originate many of the evils complained 
of. A few years before the outbreak of the French Revolu- 
tion a party of peasants parleyed with a cruel, exacting 
nobleman. 

"You know, my lord, that we must live," they told him. 

"Well, really, 1 don't see the necessity of it," was the 
chilly answer. 

The publisher must live, no matter how many authors 
his Juggernaut rolls over. Byron once gave his publisher a 
splendidly bound copy of the Bible. It was paraded on every 
occasion by the happy recipient. The latter, one day, was 
horrified to discover that the bard had changed the fortieth 
verse of the eighteenth chapter of St. John so as to have 
it read: 

■.\ow Barabbas was a publisher." 

In Arkansaw "befo' de wah" a traveler, on reaching a 
small town, found a general tight in progress. Dismounting, 
he inquired of a badly damaged citizen: 

"Podner, is this a free fight?" 

"O, yes," was the answer. "Go right in, if you feel like it." 

The traveler hitched his pony, whipped off his coat, chose 



PROSE ADDENDA 317 

an antagonist, and joined in the "dreadful revelry." Some- 
time afterwards, when general exhaustion had ended the fray, 
the traveler, covered with blood and much pounded up, ex- 
pressed to the people around his sincere thanks for the en- 
joyment he had had in the riot, and praised the spirit of 
hospitality that allowed a perfect stranger to take part in 
a free fight on the same status as the oldest inhabitant. I 
have sometimes thought the Copyright LaM' should be abol- 
ished, and a Free Grab declared at subjects, ideas, and occa- 
sionally at language, whereby the nameless writer would have 
a much better show than he has at present. 

I once replied to a New York advertisement, and forwarded 
the testimonials demanded. In a few days I was invited 
to an interview at a private residence. The advertiser brought 
out a very large manuscript I was only permitted to glance 
at a few^ moments. As I could hastily gather, it was a nar- 
rative of maritime adventure in all parts of the world. 

"I represent other parties," the advertiser said. "This book 
doesn't suit us exactly. The material is good, but we want 
the work reproduced in better style. You will work in this 
room during ordinary business hours, with a stenographer 
and typewriter to assist, if you wish. Have you dictated mat- 
ter often? And what could you do the job for? In what 
manner would you like to be paid?" 

I was very poor — needed money badly, but, without giving 
any reasons, I declined to do the job at all. I knew it was 
to rob another man's manuscript, and was unwilling to impose 
on him the bitter pangs I had several times suffered myself. 

On IMarch 23, 1917, the Kansas City "Times" republished 
this paragraph from the New York "Globe": 

"In the Municipal Court of New York City, Dale Carnagey 
has recovered $197.15 for services in writing speeches for 
Mrs. Elmer E. Black, a prominent Pacifist and club woman. 
His orignal bill was $243. He coached her for the platform. 
Mr. Carnagey is a lecturer in halls of the Young Men's Chris- 
tian Association, an instructor in public speaking in the 
Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences, etc., etc." 

William Henry Thompson wrote these splendid lines about 
the battle of Gettysburg: 

"They smote and fell, who set the Bars 
Against the progress of the Stars. 
They stood, who saw the future come 
On through the fight's delirium! 
They smote and stood, who held the hope 
Of nations on that slippery slope 
Amid the cheers of Christendom. 
God lives! He forged the iron will • 
That clutched and held that trembling hill. 
God lives and reigns! He built and lent 
The heights for Freedom's battlement 
Where floats her flag in triumph still." 



31S SO\(}S OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

Admiration for the poetic author is dampened somewhat 
by the fact that he was born in Georgia, and served throughout 
the Civil War in the Confederate army. Renegades, mercen- 
aries, hacks, are ready to write anything, do anything — for 
money. In this way a distinctive American literature is being 
obliterated. The only excuse that may be offered is the 
struggle for bread. On that score some leniency may be given. 

Concerning mercenary bards Byron wrote: 

■'Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre not for fame; 
Low may they sink to merited contempt. 
And scorn remunerate the mean attempt; 
Such be their meed, such be the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard." 

A Nebraska lady -complained to her country editor as fol- 
lows: In passing through Kansas City she saw a lot of 
nice books offered at low prices, and bought half a dozen. On 
reaching home she was vexed to find that the novels were 
shamefully mutilated. Whole blocks of pages were dropped 
out, here and there, and in every case the story was spoiled. 
The explanation was that the copyright on the books had 
expired, and that these piratical editions, rudely chopped down 
to a uniform size, not only swindled the buyer but marred the 
fame of the writer. 

"When one of these nameless Bohemians sells a novel or 
story, what does he usually get for it?" I once asked a 
New Yorker situated to know. 

"O, very little," was the answer. "Two hundred dollars 
or so. The manuscript is then a piece of property, to be dealt 
with as the new owner likes. Any name may be placed on 
the title page as author, according to circumstances. The 
book goes to the printers, and the author goes to the Bowery 
beer halls in search of happiness. I know very good story 
writers who receive regular salaries of several thousand dol- 
lars a year. They wear out in time, however; their books 
cease to sell, and they finally join the great army of hack 
writers that scribble for bread." 

As a business, a profession, a source of revenue, a way to 
make a living — the writing of books does not pay.' It is 
unprofitable. The same amount of talent, ambition, energy, 
patience and murderous hard work, applied to the ordinary 
avocations of life, will pay vastly better, in most cases. A 
few succeed, often by accident. The rest have their labor 
for their pains. It is like becoming a Field .Marshal in a 
great war. One man is a Marshal, and hundreds of thousands 
fill nameless graves. No one should write a book (especially 
a book of rhyme) unless he is rich, and has nothing else to 
do, and merely writes for amusement, or — unless he was born 
to write and simply can't keep from writing, and is content 
to do nothing else. "Poets are born, not made." "Literature 
is a cane, not a crutch." 



PROSE ADDENDA 319 

Dr. Franklin's "Poor Richard" made this admission: "Not 
a tenth part of the wisdom ascribed to me was my own, but 
was rather the gleanings I had made of the sense of all ages 
and nations." 

In the "Century" of March, 1915, Thomas L. ]Masson com- 
plained of an article in the previous January number of that 
magazine and said: "The man who wrote it imposed on you. 
His talent is better than his morals. The story is very old. 
I refer you to my book, etc." 

Nineteen hundred years ago Pliny wrote: "In comparing 
various authors I find that some of the most noted ones, 
and latest ones, have transcribed, word for word, from former 
works, without making any acknowledgement whatever." Any 
book pirate may claim to belong to a "very ancient family." 

Captain James Grant, one of Scotland's brilliant writers — 
author of "The Romance Of War" and fifty other splendid 
military stories — died penniless on May 5, 1887. The fate 
of "Ouida" (Louise de la Ramee) was similar. 

The Philadelphia "Ledger" says: "A Philadelphia con- 
noisseur has returned from England with a manuscript of 
Shelley's for which he paid $8,500. The total amount Shelley 
received in his lifetime from the publishers of his poetry 
was about $250. As one reads of the fantastic sums that 
change hands for books, manuscripts, pictures and other 
works of art, one is moved to moralize upon the difference a 
small part of the price would have made to the artist in his 
lifetime. Chatterton poisoned himself ere he was eighteen to 
escape slow starvation, since he was too proud to disclose 
his utter penury; and now a few words from his hand would 
bring enough to support him for years. In the last year of 
Schubert's life six of his songs were sold to a publisher for 
20 cents apiece. When he died, not .32 years old, his unpub- 
lished music was valued at $2 and his whole estate was 
appraised at about $12. Septimius Winner, of Philadelphia, 
sold "Listen to the Mocking Bird" to the publishers for $35. 
They made $3,000,000 out of it!"" 

"Lives of great men remind us that posterity has succeeded 
in capitalizing iiatriarchs who in their time found it hard 
to live. 

Seven cities claimed great Homer dead 

Through which the living Homer begged his bread." 

Hoffman's "Variations of the Mocking Bird," an instru- 
mental piece, was as popular as the song. I saw and heard 
Hoffman render it on a piano, and it was beautiful. He was 
a victim of booze, and a publisher got the money. 

Steven Foster, author of "My Old Kentucky Home," and 
scores of other popular songs — some of world-wide note — died 
a penniless outcast. 

I have always striven to avoid anything in the form of 
imitation. So far as possible, I have sought to be original, 
relying on my own modest literary inventions. If I had to 



320 - SON'(;S OF A MAX WHO F A I L E i:) 

live life over again, however, I would plunder everything 
good that fell in my way, for I have seen scoundrels prosi)er, 
and have seen the world eager to heap wealth and honors 
on them. It's the kind of a world we live in. You can't 
change it much. 

William Henry Ireland of London, Eng., deserves to rank 
as the king bee 'of book pirates. At the age of seventeen 
he began a series of Shakespearean forgeries. He forged 
a deed of gift to one of his ancestors of "original manu- 
scripts" of Shakespeare; also a letter of Shakespeare to 
"Anne Hatherway," a letter of Queen Elizabeth to Shakespeare' 
and the reply to the same, as well as a great number of "manu- 
script plays." These counterfeit productions sold for good 
sums, and book-and-curio dealers have not yet got quite 
through buying the bogus productions of Ireland's nimble 
pen. He retired on a fortune, to murmur with Puck: "What 
fools these mortals be." 

For a life time Joaquin Miller posed as one of Walker's 
fiilibusters in Nicaragua. I had it from his own lips that 
he served with Walker and was wounded in battle. In 1875, 
in Nicaragua, I daily met filibusters who fought under Walker. 
They had read JXIiller's works, and had no unfriendliness for 
him but, to my surprise, united in saying that he had never 
served in Walker's army. The truth is that he was never 
in Nicaragua in his life, nor in any part of Central America, 
nor in South America. When Walker was fighting in the 
tropics, iMiller was living with squaws in the foothills of 
Oregon. 

JMother Shipton's prophecies have long been famous — as 
famous as the prophecies of Daniel. She foretold the steam- 
ship, the railroad, telegraph lines, automobiles, air-ships, 
submarines — almost everything up to date. She only missed it 
concerning the year 1881, when the world was to have come 
to an "end." Perhaps she miscalculated, or has been in- 
correctly quoted. She may have said 1921. Now comes an 
iconoclast who proves that a scribbler in London, to get some 
filthy lucre, wrote Mother Shipton's prophecies five hundred 
years after the old lady was dead. 

Here's a picture for you — a picture from life. 

Think of a nameless, homeless, friendless writer, often hun 
gry and penniless, calling to account a veritable monster of 
steel, electricity, steam, iron, plate-metal, countless piles and 
towers of mighty machinery, hordes of intellectual slaves, 
bushels of money — feeding pirated literature to thousands of 
newspapers and millions and millions of readers. I once suf- 
fered from the depredations of a plant that has branch offices 
in twenty-two cities; employs editors, artists, costly engravers, 
by the score; has whole floors crowded wath type-setting ma- 
chines, daily consumes tons of iron, lead, copper, zinc and 
other metals, turning them into plate-matter, vignettes, sil- 
houettes, color plates, line and half-tone cuts, Benday shadings, 
etc., etc. How could an almost destitute person maintain 



PROSE ADDENDA 321 

argument with such an octopus? Talk about Juggernauts 
and Wallenstein monsters. 

"Might is right" — in actual practice. I have found it so. 

Some little time after publishing his book about Judith and 
Holofernes — "really a new poem, written on broader lines" — 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich became obessed with the idea that he 
was something of a Shakespeare. He dramatized his poem, 
and with a flourish of trumpets personally superintended the 
staging of it in Chicago. He there boastfully declared: "My 
idea of Judith is not exactly that of the apocryphal woman — 
a cold-blooded abstraction, a polished instrument — but a woman 
with nerves, witli heart; a true woman. The old Judith was 
vindictive, brutal, fierce; no better than the rest." In spite 
of the "puffs" of literary friends, lavish outlays of money and 
prodigal advertising, his "drama" was a failure. Bitterly 
disappointed he returned to Boston, and died a few years 
afterwards. Worry is said to have shortened his days, in 
the latter part of life Mark Twain was intensely disappointed 
because he had "never soared to the higher fields of litera- 
ture," but had been content to be "merely a funny man." 
Bret Harte exiled himself to England, and died there, because 
he thought the American people did not sufficiently appre- 
ciate his productiohs. It is trite to refer to King Solomon 
and his pronouncement that everything ends in "vanity and 
vexation of spirit." Byron declared "fife a cheat." Writers 
who have made of life a complete fizzle, are often more con- 
tented in old age than the big winners. Indifference to 
praise or blame contributes to this. 

As a prayer of Judith, this quotation is from the first 
version of Aldrich's epic: 

"O save me from him. Lord! but save me most 
From mine own sinful self; for lo! this man, 
Though viler than the vilest thing that walks, 
A worshiper of fire and senseless stone. 
Slayer of children, enemy of God — 
He, even he; O Lord, forgive my sin. 
Hath by his heathen beauty moved me more 
Than should a daughter of Judea be moved, 
Save by the noblest. Clothe me with thy love. 
And rescue me, and let me trample down 
AH evil thought, and from my baser self 
Climb up to thee, that after times may gay: 
'She tore the guilty passion from her soul — 
Judith the pure, the faithful unto death!'" 

Machine verse — only trash! 

Not the kind of reverie Charlotte Corday had, nor Joan of 
Arc; nor Judith, either. Not the reverie of heroic Woman- 
hood facing death to save a nation. 

21 



322 SOX OS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

In 1897 Philip J. Bailey, famous writer of "Festus," said 
that only thirteen editions of his poetical work had been 
sold in England, but all these had paid him royalties. In 
America thirty editions had been published and sold, but out 
of the whole lot he had never received a penny of royalty. 
When Kipling first came into notice, piratical editions of his 
works were promptly published at Boston and New YorK 
City, but he received no financial recomiiense, and there was 
no law that would reach the perpetrators. In his latter days 
Charles Dickens said: "If I had life to live over again 1 
would be my own publisher," and yet he made close bargains 
with publishers, and so did Tennyson. 

On leaving New York City just after the nauseating Harry 
Thaw trial, Hon. D. M. Demas published a rime about tha 
big city that read thus: 

"Vulgar of manner, overfed. 

Overdressed and underbred. 

Heartless, Godless, Hell's delight, 

Rude by day and lewd by night. 

Pander to the dissolute, 

Ruled by boss and prostitute, 

Purple-robed and purple-clad,* 
■ Rotten, raving, money mad; 

A squirming herd in money's rush, 

A wilderness of human flesh, 

Crazed by avarice, lust and rum. 

New York, thy name's delirium." 

With the name of Mr. Demas attached, the canticle went 
the rounds of the press. A long time afterwards Wm. H. 
Anderson, State Superintendent of an anti-liquor league, 
printed a declai-ation that Mr. Demas was not the author of the 
distich, so worded as to leave the impression that Mr. Ander- 
son was. This confusion not being enough, it was subse- 
quently claimed that "the Ode to New York" was written 
by Hon. Byron R. Newton. It was also explained that when 
Wayne B. Wheeler read the Ode at a public banquet, he did 
not claim to be the author of it, but only read it as an 
appropriate recitation. I leave to the reader the task of 
finding the real, simon-pure uncrowned poet. 

In the autumn of 1919, the "Un-Partizan Review" of New 
York City published a story entitled "Unto Others." The 
editor soon received letters saying that the story had been 
revamped from a recently produced French play. With 
careless bonhomie he cited the example of Shakespeare, and 
added: 

"We suspect that all writers of fiction do much the same 
thing. If anybody wants to work up for us a good story on 
the basis of any existing plot in literature, we'll give it at- 
tention." 

A poor defense. Is this literary justice? Will it promote 
a distinctly American literature, or insure the safety of un- 



PROSE ADDENDA 323 

published manuscripts in the hands of booksellers? We 
think not. It will benefit book hacks, pirates, and revampers, 
but no one else. The reader will be swindled, and confidence 
will be lost in a publication that issues such stutT. Such meth- 
ods were followed by Lawrence Sterne, of the '•Sentimental 
Journey." Robbing, plundering and revamping with skill, he 
became the idol of the British public. His works are classics, 
but much of his best literature was stolen from writers of 
little fame who often needed bread. It was not a case of the 
•■survival of the fittest," but a matter of opportunity and mean- 
ness. Book pirates and literary vandals! 

Long years ago a Chicago lady sent me a farewell madrigal 
that read: 

••O. Clinton, did you say 

You were gwine to go away 

For to have a little time in Colorado? 

Way out in Colorado 

Where the faro table grows; 

Where adown the desperado 

The rippling Bourbon flows. 

O, Clinton, don't you stay 

Where the cattle are so gay, 

And the bronco-busters play 

Way out in Colorado." 

I was much pleased until a cynical friend told me he had 
heard a song "something like it" in a neighboring vaudeville 
hall of no great pretensions. The "substitution evil" illus- 
trated. 

In 1903 the Philadelphia "Record" gave space to a few 
bitter remarks some one ( unnamed ) made concerning a pub- 
lishing enterprise (unnamed). The writer badly dealt with 
was the noted Charlotte :\I. Braeme. The speaker said: 
"They not only stole her books but they stole her fame. 
Transposing her initials, they printed her books as having 
been written by Bertha M. Clay. There is no such person." 
The books were sold by hundreds of thousands, and broken 
down literary wrecks were kept busy at poor pay scrawling 
off additional stories that went into print as having been 
written by the mythical Bertha M. Clay. There seemed to be 
no remedy for the outrage. 

In August, 1898, Charles Garvice, an English story writer, 
issued an "Open Letter To The American Public," coni4)laln- 
ing that his books were being published in this country not 
only without authority, but in a mutilated form. "In several 
cases," he declared, "the latter half of the novel was not 
written by me at all." Of another work bearing his name 
he said: "I did not write a word of this book. I repeat it. 
I did not write the work. They have no authority to print 
anything of mine." 

Well might Byron have it read: 

"Now Barabbas was a publisher." 



324 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILliD 

During the late war with Germany a sincere and well- 
meaning man published a book entitled "The Finished Mys- 
tery." I have forgotten his name, but he and his book are 
well known. His work attracted wide attention. It was well 
written. His ideas were chiefly based on the pretended 
prophecies of Daniel, and some other parts of the Scriptures. 
The world-war was the fabled Armageddon; the second coming 
of Christ was near at hand, and the end of the world also. One 
day I read of the seizure and suppression of this book by the 
government. Copies were thrown out of the mails everywhere, 
and seized wherever found. The book was declared to be 
a treasonable, disloyal, seditious publication, and the author 
did well to escape a penitentiary. One day I happened to see 
a great stack of these books in a rather unusual place, and 
picked up one of them. On inquiry I was told that the books 
I saw were in the custody of the Law, in accordance with 
orders from Washington. I asked for one of them, and it was 
given to me. That evening I read it through, and to my 
surprise I found not a single disloyal, seditious or treasonable 
sentiment in it. It contained theories and superstitious ideas 
I did not believe a word of, but its suppression by the govern- 
ment was a most despotic act, a gross injustice, and a ruth- 
less violation of the freedom of the press. A lot of pious 
fanatics had found something in the book that came in 
conflict with a few of their chosen dogmas, and had flocked 
to Woodrow Wilson and clamored for the suppression of the 
book. Without examining the work, or caring anything about 
the merits of the case, but merely to popularize himself, he 
exercised his "war powers" and suppressed the book. This 
he did "in his own name and by his own proper authority." 
It was a crime against the freedom of the press. 

Before James Whitcomb Riley became famous, he went to 
"market" with a "newly discovered poem by Edgar Allan 
Poe." It was accepted and published, and went the rounds 
of the press, but when the truth came out, Riley was severely 
scored by no less a i)ersonage than Henry W. Longfellow. 
Lew Wallace was accused of writing "Ben Hur" from a half- 
forgotten novel, "The Captain Of The Janizaries." A very 
noted American who published a noteworthy book, was charged 
with having drawn much inspiration for it from a Polish 
author who died in a mad house. I saw one such criticism 
in the Chicago "Journal." 

W^en President Grant left the White House, after years 
of public service, he made a trip around the world, receiving 
high honors everywhere from kings, princes, governments and 
peoples. The oflScial historian of the trip was John Russell 
Young, a journalist of high -i-epute. It was announced that 
Mr. Young's letters to a New York newspaper would be re- 
produced in book form on the return of the distinguished 
party. The book pirates got busy, revamped Young's letters 
as fast as he printed them, and when he got back, no less 
than four versions of "General Grant's Trip Around The 



PROSE ADDENDA 325 

World" deluged the book market. Mr. Young got out a book 
also, but was behind time with it, and lost money. The well 
known writer Badeau claimed to have written General Grant's 
]Memoirs. The General had lost a fortune in the wholly 
strange mazes of Wall Street: he was stricken with a malady 
that was certain to soon end his life; and, in this weakened 
condition, he was making an effort heroic to complete his 
took, and leave something to his impoverished family. That 
Badeau rendered him some assistance is conceded, but .General 
Grant wrote the book, and refused to comply with financial 
demands that were considered excessive. 

I will now modestly refer to a few of my own mishaps, 
occurring in a period of forty years. 

1 had two large prose works about the Civil War, completely 
plundered, revamped, and published piratically. 

Eighty military poems of mine about the Civil War changed 
hands feloniously, and an imitative volume of no literary 
merit was published. 

In 1899 a military novel of mine was published at New 
York City, in cheap form, and had a quick and wide sale. 
The publisher then went into bankruptcy, and a long time 
afterwards I received a "first dividend" of $8.13. 

Afterwards I wrote a military romance concerning the 
American filibusters in Cuba previous to the Spanish-Amer- 
ican war. While drinking in Baltimore I lost the first half of 
the book. I then re-wrote the whole book, revised it with care, 
and while en route to New York City with it, I lost it in 
Washington City. Booze I and four years of work gone. 

I next wrote "Martial Scenes In Central America," a long 
narrative covering the trials, heroism and conquests of Amer- 
ican filibusters under Walker and other noted leaders. I 
published ten or twelve articles from this book in the Sunday 
edition of the San Francisco "Chronicle," but the whole book 
was afterwards lost at Des Moines, Iowa. Drink! 

On three different occasions I lost important poetical 
manuscripts, but had the good fortune to have i^artial dupli- 
cates. 

When the San Francisco earthquake occurred, I was in New 
York City. In the burning of San Francisco I lost a large 
manuscript, mainly unduplicated. containing the poetical writ- 
ings of my whole life. The present volume is the result of 
years of effort to partially restore the lost one. ]\Iy principal 
losses were these: "Tamerlane Victorious," 1200 lines: most of 
"Sun Worship Shores," 1000 lines; "Trial Of Robert Emmet," 
450 or 500 lines; "Annals Of The Spanish Main," 1000 lines; 
"Siesta," 500 lines; "The Griefs Of Bohemia," in dramatic 
form, 1000 lines; and several hundred shorter poems of travel, 
history and adventure. 

I visited IMexico and Central America in 1874-1875, and 
"Sun Worship Shores" was a descriptive and historical poem 
concerning the tropic lands. Many detached portions of it 
are In this volume, having been recalled by memory, or found 



326 SON OS OF A MAN WHO FAILKD 

in old trunks, scrap books, and newspaper files. Also, de- 
tached portions of "Tlie Griefs Of Bohemia" and "Annals Of 
The Spanish Main." I have made no attempt to recall 
"Tamerlane." My memory, once powerful, has been failing 
for a nun:ber of years — the result of old age. 

"Werner" is the most inferior production ascribed to 
Byron. It was severely criticised when published — pronounced 
unworthy of his fame. It was claimed "he had appropriated 
a German or Hungarian novel, using entire pages of the 
author's language, merely changing it here and there to 
have it pass for blank verse." His friends and enemies laughed 
at "Werner." Blackwood said "It is indeed most unmusical, 
most melancholy." Its publication was a mystery. One ex- 
planation was that Byron was in desperate need of money. 
At war to free Greece from Turkish rule, all was staked on 
quick receipt of cash. His own resources had been lavished. 
Infusing his proud spirit into ignorant hordes, he sought to 
find sinews of war. Seizing on a novel that lay at hand, 
careless of everything else, he threw it into a drama styled 
"Werner," and sent it to his London publisher. Such is the 
story. Is it improbable that the publisher had some starving 
hack do the .iob? — knowing that Byron was far away, en- 
grossed with the turmoils of desperate w^ar. Placing Bj'ron's 
name to the work, in convenient American fashion, the pub- 
lisher may have sent it out himself, simply to make money. 
The wife of the poet Shelley declared that Byron gave her 
the drama to copy for him, and that it went to London in 
her handwriting. In 1899, F. Leveson Gower, an English 
"gentleman of good repute," put forth a claim that his grand- 
mother, the Duchess of Devonshire, was authoress of "Wer- 
ner." He asserted that the Duchess wrote the play, and 
afterwards gave it to her niece, Lady Caroline Ponsonby, who 
was known to be much attached to Byron. She gave the 
drama to Byron, and "he committed so extraordinary an act 
as to deliberately publish the work of another author over 
his own signature." The Duchess, he claimed, wrote the 
drama from Miss Lee's Hungarian tale of "Kreutzner." I leave 
the muddle to others. It was very unlike Byron to claim 
authorship to anything he never wrote. He may have 
scribbled off "Werner" in great haste, merely to get money 
for the Greeks. 

A crazy effort has been made to cast doubt on the author- 
ship of Shakespeare's dramas, but with no success. It is 
trite to say that he seems to have cared nothing for fame. 
An actor, a playwright and theatrical manager, he undoubtedly 
recast many old plays and books, intent only on pleasing and 
interesting the public, but his prodigious genius made of 
this careless work magnificent additions to the literature of 
the world. 

I will close with the plaintive lines of Adah Isaacs Menken: 



PROSE ADDENDA 

'Alas for me — for theme so poor. 
I stand a wreck on Error's shore; 
My past is gone — forever more! 

Where is the promise of my years, 

Once written on my brow, 
Ere errors, agonies and fears. 
And all we feel that speaks in tears. 
Ere I had sunk beneath my peers — 
Where is that promise now? 

I look along the columned years. 

And see Life's riven fane 
Just where it fell, amid the sneers 
Of scornful foes whose hateful jeers 
Still hiss and ring within my ears. 
To break the sleep of pain. 

I can but own my life is vain, 

A desert void of peace. 
I missed the goal I meant to gain, 
I missed the measure of the strain 
That lulls Fame's fever in the brain 

And gives the soul release." 



SUBMEIUtIXG of ATLANTIS 

Goethe declared that the Lisbon earthquake did more to 
shake men's belief in a Heavenly Father than all the skeptic- 
ism of the previous century. In the cataclysm of Atlantis 
probably a hundred million people perished — highly civilized, 
cultivated, enlightened. Fanatics tell us that "God destroyed 
them for their wickedness," but this an old chestnut. Plane- 
tary eccentricities; the abnormal action and influence of other 
heavenly bodies — or, the cooling of the interior of the earth, 
disarranged a portion of its crust. A catastrophe of the 
kind may occur at any time. The shock of the Lisbon earth- 
quake was felt over three quarters of our globe. Nature 
cares nothing for ephemeral human creatures. Nature is 
merciless. There is reason to believe that the world once 
tipped over, the Polar regions coming on the equatorial belt, 
and the tropical regions changing to arctic and semi-arctic 
zones. (Pickering.) This displaced the oceans — "broke up 
the fountains of the great deep," and drowned most of the 
human race. From such a frightful occurrence may have 
come the world-wide legend of the Deluge. Even now the 
world is top-heavy, and in due time another tip-over may 
occur. Nietzsche explains the Glacial eras thus: "They 
were caused by the tilting of the earth, whereby vast accumu- 



328 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

lations of ice at the North Pole were loosened. These precipi- 
tated icebergs, glaciers, and rivers of polar water over north- 
ern Europe, Asia and Amerca, grinding up the mastodon, 
mammoth, auroc and other enormous animals, and also great 
multitudes of semi-human creatures. The earliest trace of 
civilization is in the tropics." Many astronomers believe a 
wandering planetoid once struck the earth, and tore off three- 
quarters of its crust, making the moon, and leaving a huge 
cavity for the present Pacific Ocean. Only a quarter of the 
surface of the earth is dry land. Should the bed of the 
ocean raise to a common circumference, the planet would be 
covered with water and the human race be exterminated. 
The crust of the earth is not rigidly fixed, but changes may 
occur at any time. Continents that once connected Europe, 
Asia, and Africa, and bore great civilizations, sunk in the 
sea. In 190G Brandenburg wrote: "Through Yucatan, Cen- 
tral America, Venezuela, Peru, Bolivia, Brazil, Ecquador and 
Chile are scores of ancient cities unexplored * * * Uxmal, 
Mitla, Quirigua, Copan, Chichen-Itza, Palenque, and kindred 
great cities were one day dipped below the level of the sea, 
and whole nations and races were drowned. The land then 
raised to its present low level." Volcanic disturbances and 
earthquakes are undoubtedly caused, at times, by the peculiar 
l)ositions and conjunctions of other planets. Our globe may 
be affected, at any time, with great violence, regardless of 
civilizations and human races. In May, 1902, Mt. Pelee slew 
all the people in the city of St. Pierre, save one lone and 
horrified survivor — twenty-eight thousand persons perished. On 
December 28, 1908, a Sicilian earthquake destroyed 200,000 
people in Messina and the near by city of Reggio. The 
wreck and burning of San Francisco, and calamities in 
Japan, Mexico and elsewhere, might be cited, as well as the 
olden tragedy of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Instances are 
innumerable. Man takes "pot-luck" with the flimsy ship he 
is sailing on, for in the tremendous convulsions of Nature he 
is of no more consequence than a fly, a bed-bug or mosquito. 
Let this reflection tame his proud heart. No benevolent Power 
has him in tender charge. He must rustle for himself, and 
in the flnal wind-up will be wiped out completely. He will 
pass away utterly, nor ever solve the wonderful puzzle. 

"Earth is one of a mighty brotherhood of stars whose 
true nature, meaning and purpose are beyond the mind of 
Man to fathom." 

The heavens are aflame with glittering suns by millions. 
What is the purpose of Nature's transformations? There 
seems to be none. Devotees, rhapsodists, people who have 
trances, know the meaning of all things, but sad to say, the 
most wise of star-gazers have yet to find any meaning or pur- 
l)ose in the panorama of the heavens. This is the gloomiest 
truth Nature discloses— only a tedious rigmarole of changing 
forms of indestructible matter that always existed. In 
terror and despair Man seeks refuge in vain imaginings, and 



PROSE ADDENDA 329 

we are back, in philosophy, where men groped 2500 years ago. 
Whatever one's lot happens to be, accept it with indifference, 
if there is no way to improve it. You will he here a very 
short time. Indulge in no worries. 

Man is a mortal, hatched out by the Sun, and lives but 
once. So I guess at the Great Riddle. 



WAIJ A LAW OF XATURE 

After eons of evolution a species of large-brained gorilla 
developed into a scarcely human creature Science terms the 
Ape-I\Ian. After still other ages and vicissitudes, this creature 
became the Cave-Man, in lowest form of savagery. From 
that time to this, he has been a fighter, warring at first with 
powerful and ferocious beasts — for safety and for sustenance. 
Unless he fought he would, jierish, and with him his offspring. 
Like Nimrod, he became a "mighty hunter." He "subdued 
the earth." Then rival clans of men warred for choice 
hunting grounds, to resist encroachments, to avenge wrongs 
and atrocities. From primal time it has been Nature's plan 
that Man must battle, war, achieve. From the Ape-Man and 
the Cave-Man, Evolution has brought forth the highest type 
of Aryan manhood such as culminates in a Bayard. Columbus, 
Washington, Webster — an Ericsson, Edison, Darwin, or I\Iar- 
coni. Through hundreds of thousands of years -Man survived 
startling changes of climate, glacial eras, land upheavals, 
earthquake shocks and volcanic eruptions; the sinking of 
whole apntinents into the sea — every form of terrific cataclysm, 
and rising from brute savagery, he built Thebes. Babylon. 
Baalbec, Nineveh, Rome, Tyre, Venice, the temples of Atlantis, 
the pre-historic cities of Central America, and the great cities 
of today. He is not a fallen immortal. He never had a fall. 
He has arisen. But Nature made him a fighter. His environs, 
conditions, over-population, hereditary instincts, his neces- 
sities, will long continue to keep him fighting. Earth may 
never see the day when wars will be no more. 

In 1798, ]\lalthus, a rural clergyman, published in England 
an "Essay On Population," in which he malniained that "the 
inhabitants of a country where population doubles every 
twenty-five years, multiply in geometric progression (1-2-4-8), 
whereas food supplies increase in arithmetical proportion 
(1-2-3-4). The final result is War, Pestilence and Famine." 
War, he claimed, was Nature's check to over-population. 

During my own life there have been repeated famines in 
China, and great ones — so great that the government of that 
country viewed relief measures as utterly useless. Death 
for million^ was accepted as something inevitable. Last au- 
tumn a long telegraphic dispatch from Peking gave harrowing 
details of the terrible famine existing in five or six provinces 



330 SC)X(;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

of that ancient country, placing in distress or deadly danger 
from thirty to fifty million people. Multitudes had been 
perishing from pestilence and starvation. Despair, suicide, 
crime and insanity prevailed. In particular regions thousands 
of unfortunates tried to live on a diet of weeds, thistles, chaff 
and leaves. The sale of little ghiis by their parents, for any 
sum that was offered, was mentioned without comment. 
With dreadful significance the telegram added: "This is 
only a forecast of what will come before winter is over," and 
cannibalism was hinted at. When we consider Overpopulation 
as an absolute law of Nature; an unfailing, pre-arranged, un- 
changeable plan, the doctrine of a kind, loving, benevolent 
and all-powerful Heavenly Father must be thrown to the 
winds. We can do nothing else with it. On the same day 
the famine liorrors filled the daily papers, came news of th*^ 
arrival at Constantinople of a fleet of ninety-one vessels that 
were packed and crowded with Russian refugees dying of 
hunger. Most of the continent of Asia is under the shadow 
of famine, at this writing, to say nothing of suffering in 
Europe. 

Professor W. H. Hobbs, of the University of Micliigan, says: 
"iVever in the history of the world have men -been able to 
achieve anything more than an armed truce. War is a re- 
curring phenomenon. War is inevitable." 

War results from natural conditions, and from the qualities 
and characteristics of mankind. We did not make these con- 
ditions, nor instill these qualities, nor can we change tliem. 
Tlierefore be always ready for war. The outlook is not for 
peace. Future wars will come from over-population, com 
mercial rivalry, greed and ambition, industrial unrest, social 
uniest; conflicting theories of various kinds — from racial, 
religious and political animosities, and, finally, from fhe cool- 
ing of the earth. At a period not remote wood, coal, oil and 
gas will be gone. Unless Man masters the problem of Solar 
Heat, and utilizes the Sun's tremendous powers, warring na- 
tions will crowd toward the tropics. Airy propaganda, cant, 
hyprccrisy, sham, pretense, and sentimentality, will not avert 
war, but will, in the end, invite war, without any preparation 
for it. War is inevitable, and if you do not fight, and fight 
victoriously, you will be conquered, plundered and enslaved. 
■\^'ar is a Law of Nature, which Man cannot change — no more 
tlian wild creatures of the wood can dwell in liarmless peace 
together. The whole scheme of Nature involves war, one 
species pieying on the other, and all especially equipped for 
mutual destruction (claws, beaks, talons, tusks and poison), 
with .^!an ineying on every other species, and preying on his 
fellows also. Any I^eague of Peace will be a dismal failure. 
As well talk of a I^eague for Promoting Peace and Harmony 
Among Wild Animals. The lion and the lamb will lie down 
together — after the lion lias been to supper, with tlie lamb 
as the main "piece de resistance." Read the Book of Nature. 
There is nothing in it but war. Kind-hearted old ladies and 



PROSE ADDENDA 331 

sentimental collegians cannot change the laws of Nature. 
Statesmanship, true philosophy, Common Sense, and great 
achievements of Science, will do much to postpone war, and 
mitigate its horrors, but War will come nevertheless. Be 
ready for it. 

People who oppose readiness for war, and brand soldiers 
as murderers, have grown rich on lands won by war and 
sprinkled with the blood of soldiers. They are hypocrites, 
cowards, slackers, skulkers. Some of them are paid by 
foreign governments. Julius Kahn. the California congress 
man, points out that since the foundation of our government 
we have had some kind of a war every four or five years, on 
an average. The doors of our Temple of Janus are seldom 
closed. In less than 150 years we have had from 25 to 30 wars, 
small and great, and yet there are people in the country who 
preach that we don't need any soldiers. Their women sing, 
''I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier." Our soldiers and 
marines have fought in Europe, Asia, Africa, all over North 
America, and on the isles of the sea. Wars will cease when 
all the men in the world are polite gentlemen, and when all 
the women in the world are saints and angels. More men 
are murdered in the United States every year than the Conti- 
nentals lost at Bunker Hill. More men are murdered in the 
United States every year by women, than fell at Concord. 
Daylight brigandage is worse in the United States, and more 
profitable, than it is in Mexico. Soldiers have had to be 
placed on guard at the railroad depots of all our large cities, 
and around the postoffices of those cities, to prevent armed 
banditti from seizing and running away with the mails, in 
broad daylight. At Omaha, 60 miles from where I write, 
civilian guards armed with revolvers and repeating shot-guns, 
are now pacing the platforms to protect the mails. There is 
no sign of the Millenium — not yet. Pedagogues and college 
professors — demagogues, fanatics and visionaries — feminine 
and masculine women, do not keep us out of wars, but greatly 
help to get us into them. War is a law of Nature. It is sure 
to come, whether we keep ready for it or not, and whether 
we want it or not. While doing everything we can to honor- 
ably avoid war, let us imitate the goddess of Wisdom, and be 
always armed and ready. 

■'The gods and deities gathered on Olympus, crowned with 
flowers; glad with music and songs, nectar and dancing. One 
deity stood apart in silence, with helmet and breast-plate on; 
with shield in place and javelin ready; with sword at her 
side. This was the goddess Wisdom." 

University professors, pedagogues, preachers and women 
are noncombatants in time of war, and claim exemption from 
military dangers. Therefore they should not demand that men 
who must fight when the war comes shall be untrained, un- 
armed, and totally unready. This is a wrong to him who 
must "bear the battle." Cromwell repeatedly complained of 
interference with his military plans by "religious politicians." 



332 SON(^, S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

We call such busybodies "political preachers." A French 
writer in "The Nineteenth Century" says "America! a coun- 
try whose whole history from the Louisiana Purchase of 1803 
to the most recent adventures in Central America ^nd The 
West Indies, is one of expansion at the expense of neighboring 
people." 

John Burroughs thought Darwinism was indirectly one of 
the causes of the World War. "The doctrine of natural selec- 
tion, the struggle for existence, and survival of the fittest, 
fairly intoxicated the Gerjnan people." It must be suggested, 
however, that the Hohenzollerns had shown a fondness for 
war long before Darwin's time. Over-population, "the geo- 
graphical situation of Germany," the "necessity of expansion," 
the "certainty that war will come anyhow, and strike as soon 
as ready" — these were logical arguments. War is a law of 
Nature, and men will always have something to fight about. 
War is the doom of every living species. Cruelty is Nature's 
corner stone. It is a sad, a solemn, a most unpleasant thought, 
that Nature's plan is War, but we cannot change it. Nature 
is merciless. Man's career is one of toil, distress, and often 
misery. His best friends are Science, Invention and himself. 

Every thoughtful iierson laments the horrors of War, but 
to be unprepared for victorious defence is to invite insult, 
aggression, War and all manner of calamities. 

In every country are people ready to bring on war. Dream- 
ers, meddlers, agitators, fanatics, that pursue their hobbies in 
defiance of public danger, in defiance of everything— but sel- 
dom do any fighting themselves. As an instance, the Abolition- 
ists who helped bring on the Civil War. During three years 
of military service, I never saw an avowed Aboltionist in the 
Army. Such men stayed at home to make money. Another 
class in favor of war, a powerful one, is made up of manu- 
facturers on a large scale of arms, munitions, equipments, 
plate armor, war vessels, etc. This class represents an im- 
mense aggregate of cai)ital, and wields wide influence. A 
third faction consists of very rich men who view matters with 
some indifference, but would just as soon see a big war 
as not. in order that they may buy great quantities of govern- 
ment bonds — and hold the same as a permanent investment. 
These three factions do much to promote war, acting when 
atfairs are critical. 

.Most men are born to toil, anxiety, suffering, sorrow — and 
the grave awaits. Who can see any good in such a plan? 
Shall we spin a faii-y story to keep up our courage? No! 
let us bear trials and hardships with indifference; then die, 
and quit the stage of action. Or, be as knight's going forth 
for adventures, expecting blows, wounds, defeats and vic- 
tories; tournays, truces and pleasures, and then eternal 
rest. Question not— there comes no answer. 

No man should hold high rank in the American Army who 
travels about the country making speeches, arguing that 
soldiers, guns, battle-ships, munitions and equipments are 



PROSE ADDENl A 333 

wholly unnecessary relics of barbarism. He is a man out of 
place, in the army, and should be invited to resign. His 
hobbies might some day cost the lives of half a million 
soldiers, and bring grievous disgrace on the Nation. We 
should have no Pacifists in our regular army, especially in 
high rank. They would be more beneficial to the enemy than 
to us. 

The martial spirit that founded this Republic, and after- 
wards preserved it, is being supplanted by the pipe-dreams 
of sneaking pedagogues (many of them under the pay of hos- 
tile foreign governments), and by the hysterical ravings of 
senseless, silly women unfit to take part in public affairs. If 
treasonable, effeminate and degenerate tlieories and doctrines 
are taught in our schools and universities, and are accepted 
by our people, catastrophe impends. 

In time of peace prepare for war. — Washington. 

I am proud that my country is unprepared for war. — 
American Secretary of War. 1917. 

War is the natural condition of mankind. — MachiavelU. 

War is the normal state of Rian. — Geo. W. Crile. 

War is unavoidable. It is a law of Nature. Natui-e is 
merciless. — Von Moltke. 

Men will fight whenever they want to fight, and no artificial 
scheme or process will restrain them. — Col. Henry Watterson. 

All quality, pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious War. — • 
OthcUo. 

Tlie "glorious" part of war is in the patriotism, heroism, 
and self-sacrifice of the combatants. — Geo. E. Harvey. 

War is UeU.—Gen. W. T. Sherwan. 

There are things worse than War. — Theodore Roosevelt. 

There was war in Heaven. — Milton. 

What I\Ian wants is not peace, but a battle. He is a fighting 
animal. He loves adventure, self-sacrifice, excitement, hero- 
ism, relaxation. — Prof. G. T. W. Patrick. 

National "need of expansion" means Overpopulation, and 
overpopulation means War. Overpopulation is certain to 
come, and on its trail follow War, Pestilence and Famine. 
This is Nature's law, and Man cannot greatly change it. Na- 
ture knows nothing of pity or mercy, but in cruelty is 
prodigal. — Wainright. 

War develops noble qualities — courage, honor, high sense 
of duty, patriotism, fortitude, generosity, heroism, self- 
sacrifice. Perpetual peace would stagnate the world, and 
degenerate mankind. — Gen. Von Ludendorff. 

The path of human progress is strewn with the bones of 
fools, heroes and martyrs. — Balzac. 

We must fight. I repeat it, Sir. We must fight. — Patrick 
Henry. 

Let us fight as though we stood on the place of our birth 
and the place of our burial.— Robert of Sicily. 

We are too proud to fight. — Woodrow Wilson. 



334 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. — 
MarsJial Xejj at Borodino. 

I cannot understand why we have war no more than I 
understand why we have cancer and tuberculosis. When there 
is nothing in common between two nations, and no com- 
munity of interest, there will exist reasons for war, just as 
the case has been heretofore. There are times when it is our 
duty to make war, and if we refuse, we will cease to exist 
as a nation. — Gm. Leonard Wood. U. S. Army. 

The longing for permanent peace is impossible of realization, 
and has effeminate tendencies. — Gen. Von Wrochem. 

War is inevitable — as much so as the forces of Nature. It 
does not depend on the will or wishes of human beings. It 
is an irresistible demoniacal power that makes all written 
agreements, all humanitarian efforts, all peace conferences, 
miserable failures. — Gen. Kci»i. 

Napoleon was the greatest military genius that ever ex- 
isted — unquestionably. — Duke of Wellington. 

War is yet in its infancy. — Xapoleon. 

Future wars will be more deadly than those of the past. 
The induction of Woman into public life may generate 
ferocious religious wars. Gen. Wood estimates that in the 
World War the Americans lost from one-third to one-half 
more men than was necessary, because of insufficiency of train- 
ing — a heavy price to pay in blood and lives for the "humani- 
tarian" hobbies of preachers and pedagogues — the kind of 
fanatics who get up most wars, but who never place them- 
selves in danger. 



BRUTALITIES OF WAR 

In the great battle before Atlanta on July 22nd, 1864, the 
regiment to which I belonged was surrounded and captured, 
after having captured the greater part of two regiments and 
three companies of the enemy. Our brilliant general, ^Ic- 
Pherson, was killed. We were sent to Andersonville. the hor- 
rors of which are well known. As each army had captured 
about two thousand men. Hood and Sherman agreed to a 
special exchange. In making out rolls at Andersonville, a 
sergeant of my company omitted my name from the list, 
and substituted the name of a man of another regiment, who, 
by the terms, was not entitled to exchange. That man went 
out in my place. A similar act of treachery was perpetrated 
on two other members of my regiment — William Pitts, a 
youth of nineteen, and Neil Torkelson, a man about 40 years 
of age. Both afterwards perished in Andersonville. 

The continued successes of Sherman's army caused a con- 
stant removal of prisoners in the South. I was, in succession, 
a captive at Millen, Georgia; at Savannah; at Blackshear, on 
the Florida line; at the stockade of Florence. South Carolina; 
at Charleston, and at Wilmington and Goldsboro, North 



PROSE ADDENDA 335 

Carolina. While 4,000 of us — survivors of many prisons — lay 
in bivouac under guard at Wilmington, Gen. Terry captured 
the city. Rebel guards drove us to trains and hurried us off 
to Goldsboro. There the enemy decided to parole us. Be- 
lieving that Union troops must be near, we refused to sign 
the papers, but they drove us up to the tables at the point 
of the bayonet and we signed. The next afternoon, on the 
ever memorable day of February 26th, 1865 — six weeks before 
Lee surrendered at Appomattox — we entered the Union lines 
at Cape Fear river, receiving a glorious ovation from General 
Terry and the Union army. W^e had truly come "out of 
the jaws of Death, and out of the gates of Hell." 

From slow starvation nearly 14,000 men perished at Ander- 
sonville. The only escape from death was to swear allegiance 
to the Confederacy, and take a musket in its defence. This 
a man could do at any time, but out of all the Union prisoners 
in the South only a few thousand availed themselves of so 
base an expedient, mainly with the intention of deserting to 
the Union lines. An overwhelming majority spurned the 
offer, and they died by thousands, under the most horrifying 
circumstances. Gen. Robert E. Lee was not a party to this 
inhuman business. When told of the condition of the prison- 
ers he answered: "W^tiile I have no authority in the matter, 
my desire is that the prisoners shall have equal rations with 
my own men." His wishes received no attention. 

Civilization, or pretended civilization, not always does away 
with War's brutalities. The Confederate government had 
classic examples of the starvation of military prisoners. In 
ancient Rome it was not uncommon to place captured kings 
and heroes in dungeons, and leave them to die of starvation. 
Jugurtha was lowered into a dry well and left to starve. In 
the war between Athens and Syracuse, 10,000 captives from 
the Athenian army marched into an immense stone quarry 
from which escape was impossible, and there perished from 
thirst and starvation. History fails, no doubt, to mention 
a multitude of similar crimes against humanity. During the 
revolt of the American colonies, England anchored prison 
ships in New York harbor, and four-fifths of the military 
prisoners immured in them, perished of hunger and hard 
usage. Butchery on the battle field would be better. No 
excuse, apology or defense can be offered for the abuse of 
military prisoners. People who hate them, should go to 
the battle field and expend animosities there. 

During the Napoleonic wars Gen. Junot surrendered a 
considerable body of French troops to the allies, in Portugal. 
The unfortunate French received such ferocious treatment at 
the hands of the Portuguese that only a few hundred of them 
ever got back to France. The main portion perished in pris- 
ons, in the galleys, in stone quarries, and in other places of 
torture and starvation. 

During the World War, an American Andersonville came 
into evil existence at Lemans, France — a concentration camp 



336 SONOS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

that a million American soldiers passed through. This in- 
ferno was mildly termed "a military police station." Great 
numbers of American soldiers, arrested for trivial offenses, 
are said to have lost their lives there, or came out with ruined 
health, by reason of cruel and abominable treatment. The 
ocean cables could send no information to America till the 
same had been approved by a censor. A correspondent who 
wrote anything about Lemans could be sent to prison. On 
this side, an insolent autocracy intimidated the public press. 
When the war ended and the soldiers came back, a demand 
was made for the punishment of some one for the atrocities 
at Lemans. Public clamor forced attention to the matter. 
On December 10, 1919, a court-martial convened at Governor's 
Island. New York, and Captain Karl W. Detzer was placed on 
trial, with more than twenty-eight specifications filed against 
him. In the following February, to the unconcealed pleasure 
of the oflScial grandees at Washington, Detzer was acquited and 
"completely exonerated." An inspired telegram announced 
that "the verdict was reached in ten minutes after proceedings 
ended." 

The chief alleged criminal was not arraigned at all, for the 
openly expressed reasons that he "had been the military 
guardian of the President," and that "no one would be so 
bold as to even hint at his connection with the matter." (This 
does not refer to General Pershing.) 

After all the pomp and flurry at Governor's Island, one 
conviction resulted. Lieutenant Frank B. Smith (otherw'ise 
known as "Hard Boiled Smith"), received a sentence at the 
Leavenworth penitentiary for "great cruelty to the soldiers." 
He had barely got well ensconced at the prison, however, be- 
fore he was liberated by Woodrow Wilson. 

To a Congressional committee. Gen. Peyton C. March, 
former Chief of Staff, declared: "Cruelties worse than were 
ever known in the Siberian prison camps of the Czar were 
perpetrated on our soldiers in France. Only one officer has 
been found guilty. All the others were honorably discharged." 

When a war is over — especially a civil war — it is not wise 
to perpetuate its passions and hatreds. Neither is it wise to 
hastily ignore inhuman barbarities that have taken place. 
Let these remain on record that the persons or factipns at 
fault may justly receive the bitter condemnation of posterity. 
"Scratch a Russian and you will find a Tartar, " said Napoleon. 
Scratch a "civilized man" and you will too often find a 
savage. Let us never fail to excoriate him. 

Concerning the treatment of the Athenians at Syracuse, 
Thucydides narrates ae foUow^s: "The sun by day was still 
scorching and suffocating. There was no roof over their heads, 
while the autumn nights were cold, and the extremes of 
temperature engendered violent disorders. Being crantped 
for room they had to do everything on the same spot. The 
corpses of those who died from their wounds, from exposure 
to the weather, and the like, lay heaped upon one another. 



PROSE ADDENDA 337 

The smells were intolerable; and the captives were at the 
same time afflicted by hunger and thirst. They were allowed 
only half a pint of water and a pint of food a day. Every 
kind of misery which could befall man in such a place befell 
them. Of the many that came there few returned home." 

Thus did the most refined and civilized people of ancient 
times treat captive soldiers of their own race and country. 
The Hole at Syracuse was a prototype of Andersonvllle, 
though on a smaller scale. Its highest number of captives 
was 10,000. The highest number at Andersonville was about 
35,000, of whom nearly 14,000 are buried there. In all Con- 
federate stockades and prisons, the invariable rule was starva- 
tion and brutal treatment. Only one exception came to my 
notice. The commandant of the ]\Iillen stockade seemed a 
kind-hearted man, but he sadly confessed that he was power- 
less to relieve our miseries. 

Henry Wirz, the foreign mercenary who commanded at 
Andersonville, was hanged at Washington City, at the close 
of the Civil War. 



NUMBER OF SOLDTEES IX THE CIVIL WAR 

[On September 14, 1916, I published this letter in the Chi- 
cago "Evening News."] 

To the Editor— 

A paragraph has been floating about in the newspapers of 
Oklahoma, of late, which I quote as follows: 

'•The Omaha World-Herald, in a recent* issue, gave some 
statistics showing that the vast majority of those who served 
in the Union army were boys. Those who enlisted when 18 
years of age, or under that, numbered over a million. Those 
who were 21 years old, or under that, numbered more than 
two million. Those who enlisted when they were 22 years 
old or over, numbered but 618,511. Those 25 years old and 
upward numbered but 46,626." 

Here we have "more than" 3,665,137 men in the Union 
army — neariy as great a host as Xerxes had when he tried 
to conquer Greece. How flattering to Southern pride! No 
such number of men ever served in the Union army. These 
"statistics" are based on the number of enlistments, re- 
enlistments, and additional re-enlistments throughout the 
Civil War. For instance, I enlisted twice and count as two 
soldiers. I knew great numbers of men who enlisted three 
times. They volunteered under Lincoln's flrst call, to serve 
three months; they then enlisted for three years, and after- 
wards re-enlisted during the "veteran call" to serve for "three 
years or ditring the war." Under the "veteran call" whole 
regiments, brigades, divisions and corps de armee re-enlisted — • 
sounding the death knell of the Confederate States of Amer- 
ica. All these re-enlistments count, in the bogus "statistics" 

22 



338 SON(;S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

given, as new and distinct persons. It was not uncommon 
to find men who, by reason of wounds or sickness or other 
mishaps, had enlisted four times, and each one of them counts 
as four soldiers. Hordes of professional "bounty-jumpers" 
enlisted twenty or thirty times, and each of them counts in 
these pretended "statistics" as twenty or thirty soldiers. They 
continued to re-enlist till they were shot and buried. Thirty 
of them were shot at one time, at Washington City, by order 
of Lincoln. 

Every year the "historical" fake I speak of starts on its 
travels, usually about the time of some military encampment. 
In 1912, or thereabouts, the Chicago "News" published an 
editorial on the subject, which read much as this letter does. 
A few other newspapers may have done the same, or may 
have copied the "News" editorial — but without effect. The old 
lie still travels. I have no hope of killing it off, but write 
from a sense of duty, trusting that some one else will attend 
to the matter next year. To write a history of any war, 
especially of a civil war, that shall be correct in every par- 
ticular, is doubtless an impossibility. When we know a state- 
ment of importance is outrageously false, however, it is our 
duty to correct it in time — if we can. The actual number of 
men who served in the Union Army could only be ascertained 
by an exhaustive overhauling of the records of the War 
Department, and the game is not worth the candle. At the 
close of that war the strength of the Union Army was sup- 
posed to be about a million men. According to the bogus 
"statistics" given, this would show a loss on the battlefield 
of 2,665,137 men — which is ridiculous. It may be pointed out 
that we have — fifty years after the war — a pension roll of 
nearly a million persons. This is true, but not half the names 
on that roll are the names of Civil War soldiers, although all 
of them are popularly supposed to be. Whose names are they? 
That is another matter. Not half of them are names of 
Civil War veterans. 

How many men served in the Confederate Army? The 
records were poorly kept and mostly lost, and the number 
will never be known. The highest estimate I have ever seen, 
placed the number at about 600,000, but the proper figure 
should be about a million. The South had a white population 
of eight millions, and the Southern Conscription Act was re- 
lentless. Every man able to lift a gun had to fight — boys, 
young men, middle-aged men. very old men. In the words 
of General Grant, "the Southern Conscription robbed the 
cradle and the grave." Every man able to shoot had to serve. 
^Military struggles in other lands show that a population of 
seven millions, in a great emergency, can turn out a million 
fighters. With eight million people to draw from (and four 
million slaves to feed them), it is only fair to presume that, 
during the course of the Civil War, a million Southerners 
served in the army. 

Connected with the fake I complain of there is usually 



PROSE ADDENDA 339 

attached the assertion that "the rebellion was put down by 
an army of boys." I have seen statements of the alleged 
enlistment of children as young as twelve or thirteen years. 
All such stuff is rot. The Confederacy was a great military 
power, and was never subdued by an army of children. The 
regulations required a recruit to be 18 years of age. Often 
he claimed to be 18 when he was not quite so old. I did that 
way. If the soldiers were mostly very young men, they were 
far too husky to be classed as children. We had drummer 
boys as young as 15, but seldom a soldier of that age. I 
never happened to see one of that kind. Youths of seventeen 
are thoroughly fitted for military life, and if not killed, will 
soon become older.^ In spite of latter day degeneracy. 1 hope 
to see military drill introduced into every High School in the 
land. We left school rooms by thousands, to enter the Union 
army, and to-day we see our country great, rich and powerful. 
A race that will not fight will be conquered, plundered and 
enslaved — and deserves such a fate. "In time of peace prepare 
for war." Thus wrote immortal Washington. 

CiJXT Pahkhukst 



PETTIXd AND PEXSIOXIXG DESERTERS 

In 1916, when the country had no sufficient Army; no 
adequate Navy; no munitions, equipments, arms or military 
supplies, and when a great foreign war impended, we had 
on the Pension Roll of the Nation the names of 125,000 de- 
serters. 

The number of new deserters, because of the World War, 
is officially placed at 150,000 — as yet unpensioned. 

On September 22, 1920, the Kansas City "Star," Lincoln 
"Journal," Omaha "Bee," and other leading dailies, gave ac- 
count of the release of a great number of draft deserters 
who had been in prison at Leavenworth throughout the World 
War. "Bach of them was paid a salary for all the time 
he was in prison, and also received a new suit of clothes, 
and was paid the same bonus discharged soldiers got." How 
noble, how generous of Mr. Wilson! They should now be 
put on the Pension Roll at liberal rates — and, after some delay, 
they will be. 

At the time of their kindly release, with lavish pay, tens 
of thousands of maimed and helpless veterans of the World 
War were tramping the country, or dying in jails and poor 
houses, unable to obtain the slightest attention from the 
Grand Autocracy — a national shame! 

A soldier receives "pay", (when the government attends 
to him). A deserter, on release, has a "salary" for all the 
time he has been in prison, a "new suit of clothes," and the 
"same bonus a discharged soldier gets." He is a pet and a 



340 SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

favorite of the government. A "government" of this sort 
merits only public contempt. 

What i^hould be done with deserters? 

The custom in all armies in the world, from time im- 
memorial, has been to give them a speedy trial and a prompt 
execution. In the armies of ancient Rome, a soldier who 
left his post of duty for even a short time, for any reason 
whatsoever, was beaten to death with clubs by his compan- 
ions-in-arms. In the Civil War, in both the northern and 
southern, armies, a deserter was shot, if caught. Lincoln had 
thirty of them shot at one time, at Washington City. Had 
he caught and shot all the rest of them, he would have 
saved the country a mint of money. The new style is for 
congressmen to "rectify the records" of skulkers, slackers and 
deserters, and load them with pensions and honors. It is 
a quiet way of buying votes with public money. Every time 
Congress meets "private pension bills" are passed by the 
wagon load, scarcely being glanced at. It would be easy 
to pension a man who had never had on a uniform or seen 
a military camp. No deserter should have a dollar of public 
money. 

Among the many deserters of the Civil War was a no less 
distinguished person than Mark Twain. He enrolled in a 
Confederate battalion, however, but deserted before he reached 
the firing line. 

At the close of the World War a great scandal arose 
concerning the distribution of medals of honor. Even Auto- 
crat Wilson, ex-Pacifist, Ph. D., L. L. D., came proudly out of 
the smoky fray with a glittering medal on his manly chest. 
It was a 'chaplain's medal," bestowed by "the Church of 
Christ" for his great leadership in winning the war." The 
remarks of Jesus Christ about Pharisees and hypocrites 
should have been deeply engraved on it, and would have 
largely added to its value. Chaplain Woodrow should now 
be placed on the "Honor Roll' of the pension bureau at the 
regular rate of $10 per month. He is frugal and thrifty and 
would use the money wisely. 

In June, 1921, Rarrell Ufford deserted from Camp Meade, 
Maryland. He was "tired of army life, and of the unusual 
and often mental tasks which he was called upon to perform." 
He was arrested at Council Bluffs, Iowa, and the government 
paid $60 reward for his apprehension. The women's clubs, 
the lady politicians, and the masculine degenerates, took up 
his case. Aided by the daily papers they made a hero of 
him, and he soon returned in triumph to Sioux City bearing 
"an honorable discharge from the LTnited States army." 
Iowa— my native State — should be proud of him, and her 
ablest public men should hasten to i)lace him on the heavily- 
loaded Pension Roll of the Nation. 



PROSE ADDENDA 341 

THE CALL OF KANSAS 

[Rival claims to authorship by Miss Esther Clark, of 
Chanute, Kansas, and Mrs. Emma Clark-Karr of Hutchinson, 
Kansas. I 

Surfeited here with beauty, and the sensuous sweet perfume 
Borne in from a tliousand gardens, and the orcliards of orange- 
bloom ; 
Awed by the silent mountains, and stunned by the breakers' 

roar — 
The restless ocean pounding and tugging away at the shore — 
I lie on the warm sand beach and hear above the cry of tlie 

sea, 
The voice of the prairie, calling, 
Calling me. 

Sweeter to me than the salt sea spray, the fragrance of the 

summer rains; 
Nearer my heart than the mighty hills are the wind-swept 

Kansas plains. 
Dearer tlie sight of a shy wild rose by tlie roadside's dusty 

way 
Than all the splendor of poppy fields ablaze in the sun of 

May. 
Gay as the bold poinsetta is, and the burden of pepper trees, 
The sunflower, tawny and gold and brown, is richer to me 

than these. 
And rising ever above the song of the hoarse, insistent sea, 
The voice of the prairie, calling. 
Calling me. 

Kansas, Beloved Mother, today in an alien land, 

Yours is the name I have idly traced with a bit of wood in 

the sand. 
The name that, sprung from a scornful lip, will make the 

hot blood start. 
The name that is graven, hard and deep, on the core of 

my loyal heart. 
O, hither, clearer and stronger yet than the boom of the 

savage sea, 
The voice of the prairie, calling. 
Calling me. 



342 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

A\ OKATORTCAL (iEM 

When the unarmed steamer "Lusitania" was sunk by a 
German submarine on the afternoon of May 7th, 191.'), 1,19.') 
persons lierished. great numbers of them being women and 
children. Included in this holocaust were more than a hun- 
dred Americans. 

Three days afterwards, in a public address at Philadelphia. 
Woodrow Wilson said: 

"The example of America must be the example not merely 
of peace because America will not fight, but of peace because 
peace is the healing and elevating influence of the world and 
strife is not. There is such a thing as a man being too proud 
to fight." 

Cowardly platitudes, unworthy of the chief magistrate of 
this Republic! 

Such language, on such an occasion, would have blistered 
the lips of a real American. On the maternal side, at least, 
Wilson is of British paientage, which may partially explain 
his late eagerness to undo the work of Washington and restore 
this great land to the British empire as a vassal dependency, 
with an obsequious Viceroy at Washington City. Also, he is or 
was a Pacifist. With a few exceptions, the Pacifist is the 
lowest, meanest, most contemptible creature evolved by civili- 
zation. He greedily enjoys all the blessings and benefits 
of well ordered government, but in time of public peril shrinks 
from manly duty, and refuses to fight for the government 
that shields him — refuses to defend home, wife, children and 
country. Wars are brutal, cruel, abominable, but are certain 
to come. I\Ien must fight or accept the ancient alternative 
of slavish submission and ruthless oppression. When a people 
sink that low, farewell to Freedom, Glory, Honor and Progress. 
Many of the so-called Pacifists we have been bothered with 
in the past few years, have been the paid hirelings of foreign 
empires. 

"Sea Power," the naval magazine, in a recent issue says: 
"Pacifism is not the love of peace. Every just man loves 
peace. Pacifism is the unwillingness, through cowardice or 
blindness, to bear the burden of preserving the safety and 
honor of the Nation. Pacifism is the folly that denied prepara- 
tions to America against the growing menace of Prussian 
militarism in the days immediately before the war. Pacifism 
is the shame that stifled the mouths of those who were 
able to remain mute when innocent babes and adult American 
citizens were mercilessly done to death by the tori)edoing 
of the "Lusitania." Pacifism is the treachery that condoned 
seditious acts that tended to hinder the vigorous prosecution 
of the war, and endangered the lives and well being of the 
American soldiers on the battle fronts of France." 

Let us hope the day will never come when Americans will 
be "too proud" to fight for their country. 

Wilson's pretended compassion for peoples and races thou- 



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GEN. JOHN J. PERSHING 
Victorious in France 



PROSE ADDENDA 343 

sands of miles away, ill compared with his measures of State 
nearer home. When appealed to, to save Americans in Mexico 
from butchery, with cold-blooded leer he replied: "If they 
don't like JNlexico let them move out." 

He has shown concern as to how his name will "go down 
in history." It will be written that never in the annals of 
civilized government has there been a blacker page of in- 
eflflciency; a more shameless waste of public money, a greater 
loss of public property; bolder usurpations of power by in- 
solent upstarts; a greater and more useless sacrifice of heroic 
blood; or, a wilder saturnalia of treason, corruption, and 
public robberies on a gigantic scale. Posterity is loaded 
down with burdens. 

"The evil men do lives after them." 



FOLLIES AND CRIMES OF THE GRAND 
AUTOCRACY 

The State? I am the State. — Louis, the Grand Monarch. 
I am the whole business — and then some. — W. W. 
After us the Deluge. — Countess Duharry. 

At the zenith of imperial greatness, Trajan remembered 
the broken veterans of his wars. He gave them conquered 
lands in Dacia; aided them to build homes; repeatedly as- 
sisted them with money, and, long ere he passed away, he saw 
them prosperous and happy. After the close of the World 
War thousands of maimed and helpless American soldiers 
roamed the country in destitution and despair; many sought 
refuge in jails and alms houses, and lingered and died there. 
Their claims on the government received no attention. They 
had no medical treatment, no vocational training, no reha- 
bilitation, no assistance whatever. Autocrat Wilson was busy 
with affairs and distresses in far foreign lands, where Amer- 
ican money was being scattered by hundreds of millions. In 
November, 1920, in the pigeon holes at Washington City, 83,000 
relief cases awaited attention. Three costly "bureaus" made 
a pretense of operating in the matter, but proved only 
great hives of salaried parasites and swivel-chair retainers. 
Nothing was done for World War soldiers. This was not the 
wish or purpose of the American people — far from it. Billions 
of money had been squandered; new millionaires were as 
thick as roses in June, and immediate money should have 
been had for the crippled and ruined human wrecks of the 
war. Not until the recent month of aiarch was action taken 
in the matter. 

In testifying before a congressional committee. Rear Ad- 
miral Sims declared that the dilatory, hesitating, unexplain- 
able tactics of Wilson at the opening of the war with Ger- 



344 SOXGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

many, "cost the lives of 500,000 soldiers, (unnecessarily slain), 
and billions of American treasure." 

A military officer testified thus: "At the close of hostilities 
in France, there was not a tank, an airplane, or a piece of 
artillery on the fighting line that was of American manufac- 
ture. From the allies our troops obtained all deficiencies. 
Great numbe^-s of our soldiers perished in consequence." 
Precious blood shed, billions of dollars wasted, only to benefit 
a horde of robbers. 

A committee to investigate the conduct of the war reported, 
among other things: "Appalling waste, gross dishonesty, have 
not been denied or disputed, except by the gloss of rhetoric 
and a profusion of words. While American soldiers fought 
in Europe with heroism and success, ignorance, corruption and 
inefficiency wasted national resources at home, and enriched 
profiteers, scoundrels and plunderers." No one should excuse 
or defend such criminal maladministration. Every man should 
denounce it. 

Statistical narrative makes dry reading, but is often elo- 
quent of wild misrule and public ruin. 1 have thrown out 
of this book official statements, records, summaries, con- 
densed reports, and other matters of the kind, that would 
have made 20 or 30 pages of fine type. I had no room for it. 
Acts of waste, fraud, deceit, corruption, treason, open rob- 
bery — would fill a volume. Nepotism — gross, presumptuous, 
insolent, arrogant — flourished unrebuked. 

The purpose of the Espionage Act was — not to apprehend 
spies, incendiaries, anarchists, alien evil doers, and danger- 
ous persons generally,' as was pretended. It was to suppress 
free speech and free press — to silence public speakers, and 
the newspapers of the country especially, concerning the orgy 
of corruption, robbery and treason that was being carried 
on almost openly. 

More than two thousand years ago Poly bins wrote of a 
Grecian demagogue "He next squandered the public revenue, 
using tne money as though it were his own, without authority 
of Law, public decree or magistrate." History repeats itself. 

To squander public money in a profligate manner has long 
been the practice of demagogues. Thus they popularize them- 
selves, corrupt the people, and keep in power. And in this 
manner free institutions are often overthrown. 

It was a feature of the Grand Autocracy to maintain 
swarms of mere personal claquers and partisan retainers, 
without duties to perform, drawing the salaries of princes, 
and receiving prodigal emoluments such as pertain to high 
court officials and imperial favorites. It was long after the 
fall of the Autocrat that these costly parasites were finally 
dispensed with. Mr. Harding was lamentably slow in getting 
rid of them. 

"Woodrow Wilson has a genius for war." Fulsome adula- 
tion of Sir Josephus Daniels. 

Underneath the political chicanery in progress was a plot 



PROSE ADDENDA 345 

to surrender the independence of this country to Europe, 
and unload the bonded indebtedness of Europe on the people 
of this country. The game is still going on. Public robbers 
would be an evil sufficient, but we have had traitors and 
parricides in the land. Catiline's conspiracy was a village 
affair in comparison with what has been transpiring in 
America the past few years. A volume would not contain 
mere mention of the prodigal mismanagement, waste, treason, 
reckless extravagance, wild squandering, enormous looting, 
perpetrated during the Autocratic Regime. 

During an illegal and despotic reign of five years in Haiti, 
the Grand Autocracy massacred not less than five thousand 
unarmed people, and the number of Haitians who perished 
in autocratic prisons has been estimated at over eleven thou- 
sand. A fine record to leave to after times. Another Ander- 
sonville! 

Those of our citizens who believe in a government "of the 
people, by the people, for the people" — who believe the voters 
of the country need no master, but have ability to govern 
themselves — such men felt deep humiliation when troops of 
congressmen wended their way to the White House, and 
craved permission of Tumulty to see the Autocrat, that he 
might kindly indicate to them which laws they would be 
allowed to pass, and which he desired consigned to oblivion. 
Had he been a Cromwell, a Caesar, a Napoleon or Hannibal — 
one "born to command" — there might have been excuse for a 
scene so degrading — but a Wilson, bah! Hamilton, John Adams 
and others, may be pardoned for believing no people can 
govern themselves. When our seat of government was moved 
to Paris, to Rome, to Windsor Castle — to the bed rooms and 
banquet halls of foreign kings — when the descendant of King 
Powhatan was welcomed by the Queen of England, not an 
American citizen protested, save in whispers. Tacitus tells 
us that when Nero had in view a long journey to his Asiatic 
provinces, "he assured the citizens that his absence would 
not be of long continuance, and that the commonwealth in all 
its parts would continue in the same perfect quiet and pros- 
perity." Then he abandoned his intended absence from 
Rome, "earnestly declaring that every other consideration with 
him was absorbed by his love for his country; that he had 
seen the sad countenances of the citizens, and heard their ill 
suppressed complaints, accustomed as they were to be revived 
under misfortunes by the sight o: their prince. Their ]}ledges 
of affection had been so numerous, and had with him such 
a weight, that he must yield to their wishes and renounce 
his journey." Bunk is not an article entirely new. It ap- 
pears to have been used long before the time of Woodrow 
Augustus. American flunkies did not even show sorrow at 
Woodrow's departure. They slobbered all over him. For 
groveling, fawning servility, the American flunky surpasses 
all flunkies of the world. "An Englishman loves a lord." The 
American flunky is not a whit behind him. With what 



346 SON (IS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

ease did a blathering pedagogue make himself imperial master 
of America, clinging to "war powers" to the last minute he 
was in the White House — nearly two and a half years after 
the war ended. The day is not distant when the traveler from 
Patagonia will exclaim 

"Approach, thou creeping, crawling slave, 
And tell me — Is this Bunker Hill?" 

In imitation of Emperors of Rome, Wilson delivered 
harangues to Congress, instead of following the time-honored 
custom of communicating by message. This imperial fashion 
has also been adopted by Harding. Xo president should enter 
the halls of the Capitol excepting for inaugural purposes, or 
by special invitation of both houses of Congress. It savors 
too much of intimidation. The vast patronage of the Presi- 
dent should be greatly reduced, in order that members of 
Congress need never be subservient to the executive will for 
any reason whatsoever. A large part of the patronage of the 
presidential office should be entrusted to the Senate, or be 
otherwise disposed of. It is another case of King John and 
his barons. The constitution of the Confederate States pro- 
vided that a president should serve but one term of six years, 
and be ineligible for re-election. We should adopt a similar 
provision. It would give us much better service. Wilson, 
the ex-Pacifist, made his private physician a Rear Admiral 
in the Navy — an insult to the heroes who sail the seas. 
Harding follows in Woodrow's footsteps. He has made an 
Ohio doctor a Brigadier General of the Army. Why should 
not the President's barber be a Colonel, or his bootblack 
a Captain in the Army, or the Chambermaid of the White 
House a Rear Admireless of the Navy? Congress should 
rise in its wrath and smash such business. Let our presidents 
pay their own doctor bills, and cease to belittle honored 
titles of the Army and the Navy. Why should not every 
senator put his doctor on the pay roll of the Nation, and give 
him a title? Down with such contemptible work — work so 
highly injurious. 

When son-in-law McAd'oo retired from public cares and 
worries, he bought a modest home-place in the most beautiful 
part of California, that cost him $1,200,000. Not satisfied 
entirely, he bought another place on Long Island, near New 
York City. Woodrow, before leaving the presidency, bought 
a fine senatorial mansion in Washington City. Brother-in-law 
Boiling should have a villa at the national capital also. This 
illustrious family deserves to be well housed. 

Mr. Wilson was head official of the Red Cross throughout 
the war. It is vain to think he kei)t a closer scrutiny on its 
immense expenditures than he did on the still vaster ex- 
penditures of the general government. He made one contri- 
bution to the Red Cross. An ambitious eastern town gave 
him a handsome summer bungalow worth ten or twelve 
thousand dollars. With much hesitancy he accepted the 



PROSE ADDENDA 347 

gift, coupled with a donation of $2,500 to the Red Cross. 
At least," the donation was announced. 

In a small western town a lady said: 

■•Our little Red Cross raised $1900, and put it in the local 
bank. When we needed some of it for a worthy home purpose, 
we found that we couldn't get a dollar. The bank refused to 
pay us. The money we had deposited was out of our control 
entirely." 

A stranger from the planet Mars might have inquired: 

'•Well, who got the Red Cross money? You say you raised 
600 million dollars. Where's it gone?" 

"See the higher-up." 

"Who is the higher-up?" 

"That 'broken man' — 'poor old Woodrow Wilson' — 'the rich- 
est president that ever left the White House.' His head 
clerk is part of the government now, notwithstanding the 
grear and solemn referendum." 

At 1107 Broadway, in New York City, is published one of 
the finest and most costly magazines in the United States. 
All its expenses are paid out of the ordinary receipts of a 
newly established publication, and out of funds raised "to feed 
the starving women and children of Europe." It is called 
"The Red Cress Magazine," and in a prominent place a line 
reads: "Owned and published by the American Red Cross." 
At tlie head of a page appears the names of all the chief 
officials of the Red Cross, and at the very top stands the 
name of Woodrow Wilson. His health is not so bad as to 
require him to quit this position. The "Red Cross Magazine" 
has never been known to speak of Mr. Wilson excepting in 
terms of unbounded admiration. His various schemes and 
propaganda have received hearty approval, and his "lovely 
character," "high ideals" and "charming personality" have 
been extolled to the limit. On cash obtained from somewhere, 
still another propaganda periodical is published at No. 70, 
Fifth Avenue, New York City. It is called "The League Of 
Nations Magazine." 

In New York City many gentlemen of literary skill have 
been known, at the proper time, to portray moving tales of 
Turkish atrocities in Armenia with such force and power 
that they opened the money tills of the public with greater 
speed than most accomplished burglars could have done. It 
is moderately computed that these gentlemen have massacred 
more Armenians, in the past fifteen years, than would people 
the whole western hemisphere. Still, when necessary, another 
million Armenians march up with a smile to meet the Turkish 
butcher knife. Red Cross "workers" have swarmed all over 
Europe and Asia, stopping at fine hotels, and enjoying full 
rank, title, salary and emoluments of regular army officers; 
having fine times; praising the Grand Autocracy (of course), 
and devouring the money so freely contributed to feed "starv- 
ing women and children." Just before the Armenian mandate 
was kindly tendered to the American people, there w^ere five 



348 SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

hundred of these harpies on the pay roll of the "Near East 
Relief Association." 

In spite of autocratic censorship a little news crossed the 
ocean occasionally. Here follows a telegraphic story that 
came from Constantinople under date of September :iO, 1920. 
At an official hearing held on that date, Lieutenant-Colonel 
Coombs, "Director of the Armenian Relief Association," ad- 
mitted that many expensive dinners to "high foreign officials," 
had been paid for out of the relief funds; also, that cham- 
pagne and wines figured in the menus; that one bill for a 
dinner in the preceding July amounted to $:J50; that Russian 
singers and Turkish dancers entertained at tliese affairs. 
The trading of flour at Datum for two car loads of whisky 
"was a matter outside of the Colonel's jurisdiction." He con- 
ceded that "the affairs of the Xear East organization had 
been so conducted that it was impossible to iirove the alleged 
shortages." The money to pay for all this, (and a thousand 
scandals beside) was freely furnished by the over-generous 
American public. During the World War hypocrites and 
grafters had a veritable saturnalia. It was higli treason to 
write or breathe a word on the subject. It is a long call 
from the Near East to the far West, but great was the boodle 
thereof. Jesus Christ had a fierce dislike of hypocrites. He 
could never speak of them in polite language, or without a 
show of intense anger. 

Mahomet described Hell as a place with seven floors or 
levels, and the last floor down — the hottest and worst— he 
reserved for hypocrites. By this time it must be much 
crowded. Additional accommodations will need to be pro- 
vided. A considerable part of the money the American people 
spilled out by hundreds of millions, "for the sick and wounded 
soldiers in France," and for "starving women and children," 
went to maintain hypocrites and grafters in comfort and 
luxury. More of it went in political and personal propaganda. 
It' went in many ways not anticipated. Engineering "great 
drives" became a profession — a lucrative one. Lawyers, stu- 
dents, i)rofessors, threw aside tlieir books, to "work for Jesus," 
as it was blasphemously termed. Respectable looking girls 
stopped strange gentlemen on the sidewalks of large cities, and 
solicited money for "the starving Armenians," the Bohunks, 
the Finns, the Slovaks, etc.— a dangerous and demoralizing 
method. The money went to "headquarters"— the last that 
was usually heard of it, unless it turned up in some oriental 
1 anquet hall. Charity now begins — not at home — but away 
off somewhere thousands of miles. The farther off the better 
and more i)rofitable. 

The Bergdoll opera bouffe is still fresh in the public mind. 
Some ambitious youth eager to "fire the Ephesian dome." 
should soar into ])ublic fame with a World War opera to rival 
••Pinafore" entitled "Bergdoll's Pot Of Gold." There might 
be more money in the opera than there was in the pot. An 
international burlesque was the award of the Xobel prize 



PROSE ADDENDA 349 

to Woodrow Wilson "for his great work in keeping the world 
out of war." Attached to it was a sack of European gold — 
$40,000. This went into his strong box. He has ever been 
thrifty^too penurious, in fact, to comply with the most 
meagre social requirements of the White House. In December 
last he had the impudence, the stupidity, the unconscious 
irony, or the unintended humor, to say this to Congress: 

"I cannot over-emphasize the necessity of economy in gov- 
ernment appropriations and expenditures, and the avoidance 
by Congress of practices which take money from the treasury." 

And this with wasted treasure scattered around by billions I 
The wisest imperial command he ever gave (wise for him- 
self) was this: "There must be no inquiry into the conduct 
of the war." 

Of son-in-law INIcAdoo, "Leslie's Weekly" says: "If, for 
every minute of time since the beginning of the Christian 
era, three dollars had been cast into the sea, the sum would 
not equal what he threw away in his profligate mismanage- 
ment of the railroads. It exceeds the whole cost of the Civil 
War, and is the most stupendous waste in human history." 

They who believe that Mr. Wilson is a mild, benevolent old 
gentleman led estray by visonary hopes; high-minded, altru- 
istic designs, and wholly impracticable ideas; that he has 
been so engrossed with plans and struggles for the welfare 
of mankind that he was unable to give to public affairs the 
close attention he desired — all such persons should be sent to 
the Home of the Feeble Minded. 

Money for profiteers, hypocrites, grafters, Asiatics, mush- 
room governments — money by the millions, and by the hun- 
dreds of millions — but not a dime for the crippled, homeless, 
used-up American soldier. Presiding Elder Wilson, of the 
"hard boiled" Presbyterian cult, had been too busy to care 
for the soldier. From the Lincolii (Neb.) "Star" I quote one 
case out of tens of thousands. On April 25, 1921, the "Star" 
said: 

"The incredible tale of a Lincoln wounded ex-service man, 
bearing German bayonet scars and bullet wounds received in 
the St. IVIihiel drive, blinded by chlorine gas in the left eye 
and with one lung gone, broke, sick and penniless, wandering 
on the streets of Lincoln by day and sleeping on a bench in 
Antelope park by night, was accidentally disclosed and investi- 
gated. * * For a week George A. Morrison of the Eighty- 
ninth division, slept on the benches or the band stand at 
Antelope park, less sheltered during the cold nights than the 
wild animals that are comfortably caged there. Morrison with 
two brothers enlisted in 1917. One brother was killed at St. 
Mihiel and the other at Chateau Thierry. Morrison himself 
was wounded at St. Mihiel and while in a hospital the influ- 
enza carried away his father, mother, sister and wife. After 
spending 14 months in a hospital, he returned to Lincoln, 
his former home. He had been away almost three years. No 



350 SON'CJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

one knew him. His folks were dead — every one. He had 
no home, no friends. He was broke, sick and half-starved." 

The Red Cross had "turned him down" because they "had 
no record of Morrison." How many records have they of 
"the starving Armenians" or "the suffering Slovaks?" The 
American Legion came to the rescue, and suitably cared for 
the ruined veteran. In the whole LTuited States there 
have been tens of thousands of such cases. The Atitocracy 
was too busy looking after Europeans and Asiatics, to care 
anything about unfortunate Amercans. To its everlasting 
shame, it was too busy to care for the gallant soldiers who 
came back from Europe crippled, penniless and health-broken. 
No "high ideals" applied to them. Well may the Future 
shower curses on the Grand Autocracy. 

Any administration of affairs on a vast scale will be marred 
by examples of waste, inefficiency, dishonesty, or even stu- 
pidity, but where the dark record is unbroken for years, and 
brings ruin in its train, there must be astounding blunders, 
or crimes, or both commingled. Napoleon declared that in 
great affairs a blunder was worse than a crime. The Auto- 
cracy had blunders and crimes to an amazing extent. History 
will rend away its veil of selfishness, hypocrisy and self- 
righteous deceit. 

The Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918; the Peace 
Resolution, on July 2, 1921. A long, expensive and dangerous 
interregnum. Cause of delay — the stupid selfishness of one 
vain official, and the hidden plots of greedy foreign con- 
spirators. 

In July, 1921, Ford's "Dearborn Independent" declared: 
"Persons next to the government profited more than $60,000,000 
by having advance information of the contents of Mr. Wilson's 
great diplomatic note." 



ETEKXAL TORTURE C HAMIiER OF 
THE (JODS 

They lavish adulation on a Being whom, in sober truth, 
they depict as eminently hateful. All ages and nations have 
represented their gods as wicked in a constantly increasing 
progression, adding trait after trait, till the most perfect ex- 
pression of wickedness has been reached which the human 
mind can devise. Calling this "God," they have prostrated 
themselves before it. Think of a being who would make a 
Hell — then create the human race with the infallible fore- 
knowledge, and therefore the intention, that the great ma- 
jority of them should be consigned to horrible and everlasting 
torments. — ./. -S. Mill. 

Man built himself a deity to take the place of the L'nseen 
Intelligence that controls the infinite, endless, eternal Uni- 



PROSE ADDENDA 351 

verse. To this deity, from age to age, Man has added new 
and ferocious attributes. At last we have the incarnation 
of a most abhorrent fiend. This god creates a Hell of un- 
imaginable horrors, of endless miseries and tortures, then 
creates Man to fill it. With foreknowledge of all things, he so 
arranges the world that nine-tenths of humanity must writhe 
in Hell for eternities everlasting — without end. Then Man 
bows down and worships this monster. Could anything be 
more pitiable or more laughable? — Markhincl. 

This world is utterly indifferent to the souls that are rush- 
ing headlong into Hell. — E. A. Fvrgerson. 

Punishment in a world to come is an idle fable. — Cicero. 

Man invented his deities and devils. — John Burroughs;. 

Into Hell I fain would go, for into Hell fare the goodly 
scholars, and the goodly knights that fall in tourneys and 
great wars; and stout men-at-arms, and all men noble. With 
these I would go. — Aucasain. 

Hell! Jehovah! eternal torture chamber of this ferocious 
fiend. — Ashley. 



DECADENCE OF A EACE 

"The female of the species is the deadlier," writes poet 
Kipling. 

From John Burroughs, the naturalist, I closely condense 
thus: "Among insects the females dominate. The malignant 
mosquito that torments us is the female. Among spiders, 
scorpions, etc., the female, in sexual fury, kills and devours 
the male. When food is scarce, female spiders also devour 
their offspring. Bees have queens to rule them. The female 
bees kill the males. The honey work is done by neuters, under 
female supervision. In the world of plants the male sex 
dominates. Among animals (wherein Man is classed) the 
male is master, and females take a secondary place." 

Among ants the fighting is done by males, who often cam- 
paign in large armies, and turn aside for nothing whatever. 
Work is largely done by slaves captured in battle — Man's 
ancient custom, not entirely relinquished, and always liable 
to be re-adopted. 

The so-called "elevation of Woman" denotes the degeneracy 
of Man. He is giving up the place Nature assigned him. The 
participation of Woman in public affairs, and her approaching 
domination therein, is a violation of the laws of Nature. 
Nature is merciless, and will impose a grievous penalty, 
probably at first, in the form of wide social, financial and 
political demoralization. Prosperity will cease, domestic ties 
be loosened, chivalrous ideas be thrown to the discard, the 
institution of marriage may be endangered, puritanic oppres- 
sions and religious persecutions may follow. If, in a fast 
decaying civilization, Man, the degenerate, has lost his natural 



352 SONCJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

position, so also will Woman lose hers. False conditions 
will produce a social catacylsm. The fanatics of to-day will 
be the serfs, coolies and chattels of tomorrow. Instead of 
peace, order, freedom, greatness and prosperity, there will 
be crime, disorder, tyranny, war, slavery, concubinage and 
polygamy. Well may these hordes of busy bodies exclaim 
with Countess Dubarry: "After us the deluge." To avert the 
complete destruction of American civilization, it may be neces- 
sary to return to despotic forms of government. 

Woman is no more fit for the right of suffrage than the 
children in our public schools are. A creature of sentiment 
and emotion, she will be the mere dupe of Treason, Supersti- 
tion, and fanatical propaganda. The work is already under 
way. Our mothers and grandmothers lived without the ballot, 
and never wanted it. Neither did they roam the streets, in 
daylight, in bedroom attire. For this, and other honorable 
peculiarities, we hold them in veneration. Old men look on 
with wonder and amazement at the startling spectacle of 
swarms of blooming girls, and bedizzened, shrivelled-up old 
dames, pouring along the sidewalks in the reception costumes 
of the (Icmi-monde. When the women and the preachers have 
run the country to hell, the sword, at last, will straighten 
things out. 

Take a walk through the State House of Nebraska. It's 
like wandering through a Turkish harem. What hordes of 
feminines! Here and there sits a meek and lonely man, 
under feminine supervision. All this is a violation of the 
laws of Nature. These women should be at home making beds, 
baking bread, sewing garments, raising babies, training up 
future men and women. That is the work Nature designed 
them for. That is the work which, in course of time, their 
successors will return to — after wild commotions have torn 
the land to pieces, and the cannon and the sword have re- 
established order. A great electric storm clears a noxious 
atmosphere, but present institutions will change materially. 



SECESSION INIOVEMEXT IX THE 
PHILIPPINES 

[Written in July, 1921.1 

In 1899, at Warren, Ohio, President McKinley said: 
"We are in the Philippines. We have acquired that territory, 
not by conquest alone, but by purchase and solemn treaty. 
It is ours just as much as any part of our great public domain. 
Our flag is there, rightfully there; as rightfully as the flag 
that floats above me here today. It is there, not as the flag 
of tyranny or as the symbol of slavery, but it is there for 
what it is here and for what it is everywhere — for justice 
and law and liberty and civilization." 



PROSE ADDENDA 353 

VVoodrow the Munificent not only aspired to give away 
American money by hundreds of millions, but there is reason 
to believe he tried to give away territorial possessions of the 
American people. In spite of Asiatic plots and sentimental 
platitudes, it can be truthfully said that we have as good 
a claim to Dewey's Archipelago as we have to New Jersey, 
Louisiana, Illinois or Alaska, and a better claim than we have 
to Texas. We do not put men in place at Washington City 
to "lift up weaker races," nor to prostitute high official posi- 
tions in the interest of foreign empires, but to advance the 
glory and welfare of the American Republic and the American 
people. That is what our government is for. 

To throw the islands open to Japanese immigration; to con- 
fer citizenship on the Japs, and then set up a pretended 
"independent government," would be merely to hand the 
Archipelago over to Japan, and for that purpose alone a 
pending "treaty" was concocted. Wilson schemed at the job 
for seven years, encouraged by Great Britain, if not instigated 
by that power. 

It is not wise or desirable to cultivate animosities between 
Anglo-Saxon nations, for they have enemies enough as it is. 
Neither is it wise to believe that serious trouble between this 
country and England is an impossibility — something not to be 
thought of. England was eager to interfere in our Civil War, 
till the genius of Ericsson stopped her. She is ever on the 
alert to increase the power and permanency of the British 
Empire. We have no right to complain of that, so long as 
the sovereignty, territorial possessions, and independence of 
our own country are not involved. When our territories, inter- 
ests and independence are endangered, we should be wide 
awake and very ready to defend what Fortune and valor 
have given us. For peace, war and diplomacy a close alliance 
exists between England and Japan. 

While Borah, the preachers, and misguided women, have 
been screaming for the disarming of the American nation, 
Japan has been straining every nerve to provide airships, sub- 
marines, battleships and munitions, and, with feverish haste, 
British shipyards are building all manner of naval fleets for 
Japan. Just across the boundary line of Canada the British 
government has installed an immense plant for building and 
equipping air fleets with enough powerful explosives to blow 
down all the great cities of the United States, Washington 
City included. These matters are notorious. 

Chinese and Japanese coolies should be rigidly excluded 
from this country, and if we must have a war over "racial 
equality" and the coolie question, let the war come. We 
should be willing to fight to keep the land our forefathers 
left us. This country needs no immigration of any kind. 
The world is overpopulated. A hundred years hence America 
will be as crowded as Europe is to-day. 

No Japanese coolie is allowed to land in a British port, 
but he may enter this country with impunity. Such a state 
23 



354 SC)\(^. S OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

of affairs should be rectified at once, and in a manner most 
thorough. 

At all times our Nation should be kept in reasonable readi- 
ness for unavoidable war. 

( I have never yet seen this country prepared for war — when 
the war arrived. I never expect to see it so prepared. There 
are too many traitors and Idiots in the land. Some day the 
Nation will have to swallow a terrible dose of disaster and 
shame.) 

We have been under threat of "war with Japan," for a 
long time. This is growing tiresome. 

An article in the British "Edinburgh Review" of April, 
1921, contends that the Asiatic coolie is not at all adapted 
for English colonies in South Africa, but is completely adapted 
for "taking the place of the Latin American mongrels in South 
and Central America." Nothing is said about the fate of the 
American "mongrels" in the United States. They are to be 
attended to later on, perhaps. It is time to announce a 
positive, a decisive policy, concerning the yellow skins. They 
should be rigidly excluded, not only from the L'nited States 
but from the American hemisphere. Cringing and crawling 
and begging at the foot of the Japanese throne should cease. 
It should be known, in unmistakeable terms, that the American 
people have resolved to keep the yellow race out of this coun- 
try if they have to fight to a finish not only Japan, but also 
her secret supporter. Great Britain. Public opinion in the 
Canadian Dominion, in New Zealand and in Australia, is 
strongly averse to any British alliance with Japan for a war 
with this country. Once for all the Coolie question should 
be settled, and settled for all time. The Japanese barbarian 
should be barred from the shores of the western hemisphere, 
and Dewey's Archipelago should not be surrendered to soothe 
and placate him. If that is not American public opinion, the 
future of this country is indeed clouded, and the sentimental 
degenerates of to-day are rearing children to be the slaves 
of Asiatic masters. We must be ready to fight for our country 
or lose it. 

During the past summer Count Okuma, the Bismarck of 
Japan, made a tour of our great cities, and addressed large 
audiences of stupid or corrupt Americans, being seconded in 
his efforts by subsidized preachers, subsidized professors, and 
by deluded, hysterical women. To the idiots, knaves, hypo- 
crites and degenerates who assembled to greet him, he declared 
that the Japanese heart overflowed with love for the great 
and generous American people. In an outburst* of pathetic 
sorrow he deplored the circulation of evil reports about the 
humane and peaceful Japs, and declared that any idea of 
trouble between America and Japan was too preposterous to 
be even thought of. Unfortunately for these treacherous pre- 
tences, he is on record for opinions of quite a different sort. 
In the City of Tokio, in 1916, he outlined, advocated and pre- 
dicted the conquest of the world by the yellow races, and 



F'ROSE ADDENDA 355 

the reduction of the white race to a condition of literal, un- 
disguised slavery. (See "Quarterly Review" of April. 1921.) 
With Asiatic arrogance he wrote: "Cliina is our steed. We 
will arm and drill the Chinese; then will follow a temporary 
alliance with Russia. After that, the conquest of the world. 
As for America, that fatuous booby witlv-much money and 
sentiment, but no cohesion, and no brains of government, 
were she alone we should not need our China steed. America 
is an immense melon, ripe for the cutting. North America 
will support a thousand million people; they shall be Japanese, 
with their slaves." Who are to be the slaves? The children 
or grandchildren of miserable American degenerates, who 
clamor for "peace at any price." Slaves to Asiatic yellow 
skins! Better to perish on the battle field. Better still, to 
keep reasonably ready for war; to fight victoriously, and to 
exterminate the last one of the insolent invaders. "There is 
nothing new under the sun" — no New Day. What has hap- 
pened before will happen again. Strong races will continue to 
over-run countries held by races too feeble or too cowardly 
to fight. Men too effeminate and contemptible to defend their 
homes, families and native land, will become the slaves of the 
conquering race, and will deserve to be. They are fit for 
nothing else. Many years ago a distinguished scientist pre- 
dicted that the white race would degenerate on the western 
hemisphere. We see many evidences in support of his theory. 
In August, 1918, Mexican soldiers killed American soldiers 
and citizens on American soil. Before and after that, many 
other gross outrages occurred. In retaliation we should have 
seized vast unoccupied territories in northern INIexico, and 
prepared them for settlement and civilization. Their untilled 
mountains and wild fastnesses would have yielded coal, oil, 
silver, gold; all fruits, grains, minerals; the returned soldiers 
from France could have found homes, employment and riches 
there; half a dozen wealthy and powerful states would have 
resulted in twenty-five years, and the Mexicans themselves 
would have been vastly benefited. We did not do anything 
because England and Japan did not so desire. They acted 
through the Grand Autocracy. The world is overpopulated, 
and the evil, great as it is, will be enormously increased ere 
long. For a hundred years we have found lands, and made 
room, for the overflowing populations of Europe. All immi- 
gration should now be stopped; and we should keep "a place 
in the sun" for the next generation of Americans, and not 
give away all vacant room to strangers, vast numbers of 
whom remain aliens, and cannot be assimilated, and do not 
wish to be. Half a million dollars in gold, scattered among 
preachers and professors, will keep America in a defenseless 
conditon. Now that women have entered into public affairs 
it will only be necessary to claim that such-and-such a policy 
will "keep the country out of war," and they will eagerly 
support any treasonable scheme that is hatched out in the 
secret cabinets of London and Tokio. The blood of hundreds 



356 SONCiS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

of thousands of American youth may be vainly poured out 
on fields of defeat, to atone for this national folly and disgrace. 
With Woman "in the saddle" and the preachers close behind 
her, and a rich and powerful British-Japanese lobby at work 
in Washington City, we shall see many strange things in the 
near future. The so-called "women's clubs" of the TTnited 
States have endorsed the secession movement in the Philip- 
pines. If women had been voters in 1861, the Confederate 
States of America would have been in existence to-day. Now 
that degenerated Americans have bowed their necks to the 
female yoke, we may expect only national humiliation and dis- 
aster. Our country will lose its proud position in the eyes 
of the world, and go dawdling on to ruin. Only a social 
and political catacylsm can bring salvation. 

The time has come to dispense with the ruinous senti- 
mentality that, it is the business of the American people to 
find homes, lands and employment for the overflowing popu- 
lations of the whole earth. Our duty is to think of ourselves, 
and of the welfare, freedom and independence of those who 
will come after us. 

Threats and busy preparations for "world conquest" cannot 
be dismissed with a "pooh! pooh! that's only talk." We have 
the bloody lesson of Europe before us. All schemes for world- 
government, with headquarters in Europe, should arouse 
American abhorrence. Any attempt to make America a de- 
pendency of Europe will, in the end, meet with armed 
resistance. 



SITTING lU LI. 

Sitting Bull began his warlike career at the age of 14, 
killing and scalping an enemy. He thus became a warrior, 
receiving the name of Tatanka Yotanka, which means "Sitting 
Bull." His father was a leading chief of the Sioux nation, 
and one of his uncles also was. 

Up to 182.5 the Sioux held an immense territory stretching 
from east of the Mississippi almost to the Rocky Mountains. 
It included half of Minnesota, two-thirds of North and South 
Dakota, and portions of Wisconsin, Iowa, Missouri and Wy- 
oming. In 1S:;7 a treaty was made, by the terms of which 
che Sioux gave up all lands east of the Mississippi. That 
year Sitting Bull was born. In 1851 the Sioux sold the greater 
part of .Minnesota to the United States. The Indians gave up 
their lands, white settlers poured in, but the government 
kept none of its treaty promises, and paid no attention to 
the complaints of the Indians. This resulted in the massacre 
at Spirit Lake in 1857, in which Sitting Bull took part, as 
a sub-chief, being then twenty years of age. Four years 
later the Civil War broke out, and he became an active and 
incessant enemy of the government for years, usually operat- 



PROSE ADDENDA 357 

ing on the Plains in conjunction with Red Cloud and other 
famous chieftains. In 1862 the Sioux broke into Minnesota, 
slaughtered more than a thousand settlers, and ravaged the 
country far and wide. Gen. Sibley defeated them, hanged 
thirty-nine chiefs on one scaffold, sent several hundred war- 
riors to prison, and drove the rest of the tribe far westward. 
In 1866, Col. Fetterman's command of a hundred men was 
massacred near Fort Kearney, Nebraska. In 1868, gold hav- 
ing been discovered in the Black Hills, another treaty was 
made, but the government violated its provisions and paid no 
attention to complaints. On June 25th, 1876, occurred the 
Custer massacre. Sitting Bull then retreated to Canada with 
oOOO warriors, but after a long sojourn in the north returned 
under an amnesty promise. He was soon imprisoned, was kept 
under close guard for two years and was then released. The 
whites had killed off the last buffalo in the country, and 
occupied the best lands. The Indians were hungry. The 
government had made another treaty with them, but all 
the terms were violated. Trouble was brewing. The ^lessiah 
craze broke out. After the fashion of white men the Indians 
looked for a Messiah to cure their many troubles, but looked 
for one of their own race. Ghost dancing commenced. It 
was thought that Sitting Bull might have something to do 
with the prevalent excitement, and his arrest was ordered. 
On December 15th, 1890, at his camp on Grand River, an at- 
tempt was made to take him into custody, and a bloody 
fight occurred. He and his son and many leading retainers 
were killed; also some soldiers, and ten Indian policemen 
who tried to carry out the order. Two weeks later took place 
what has been called "the battle of Wounded Knee." It was 
a miserable affair throughout, and was only a massacre. With 
a wintry blizzard impending, a lot of wandering, hungry and 
bewildered Indians from Sitting Bull's late camp, commanded 
by a chief who was too sick to ride a horse, stopped to make 
a shelter for themselves. Then a company of soldiers without 
definite orders, intentions or instructions, went into camp 
near by. Neither side had planned to attack the other, but 
each feared the other, and dreaded foul play. The next 
morning an officer ordered the soldiers to disarm the Indians. 
Prompt resistance was offered, upon which machine guns 
were turned loose on the Indian camp, and firing was con- 
tinued as long as a live Indian could be seen. About 250 
warriors perished, and out of 200 women and children, 50 
fell dead. It is a tradition of the plains that an officer 
plainly commanded the soldiers not to spare the women and 
children. Gen. Miles, who possessed the complete confidence 
of the Indians, soon arrived at the scene, and prevented graver 
troubles. Then the government of this "Christian nation" 
made another treaty, and tried to carry out its provisions. 
Young-;\Ian-Afraid-Of-His-Horses said this to Gen. Miles: 

"There was no need of the war. The Indians are brave, 
and the white man is brave, but the white man does not do 
as he says." 



358 St)N(;S OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

Stui'k'ity in great affairs should be considered a crime. 
What disaster, deUh, it entails on other men. What multi- 
tudes of gallant fighters — white and red — perished on the 
Plains, that criminal stupidity and gross dishonesty might 
reign at Washington. What hundreds and hundreds of settlers 
perished — men, women and children. I might almost say — 
what thousands! It was in the era of the "post trader" 
scandals, and other inodorous military and frontier abuses. 
The money intended for the feeding of the Indians may have 
been stolen. It probably was. 

Sitting Bull was o?. years of age when he died. In the 
Custer fight he led a greater force than Tecumseh ever had. 
The Wounded Knee tragedy recalls the famous words of 
Logan, chief of the Mingoes. Logan said. "There flows not 
a drop of my blood in the viens of any living creature. Last 
spring, in cold blood and unprovoked. Colonel Cresap mur- 
dered all the relatives of Logan, not sparing his women and 
children. This called on me for vengeance. I have had it. 
I have killed many. I have fully glutted my rage. Who is 
there to mourn for Logan? Not one!" 

Th^^ timely arrival of Gen. Miles and Young-Man-Afraid- 
Of-His Horses, probably averted another great and bloody 
Sioux war. 

The second time I volunteered for service in the Union 
army. I was detained some days at Camp McClellan, Iowa, 
and one of my duties was to serve as sentry over the Sioux 
warriors captured in Minnesota by Gen. Sibley. They were 
in prison barracks under vigilant guard. Twice I served as 
sentinel over them. 

People who paid little attention to frontier affairs, have 
vague ideas concerning Custer's last battle. With only 300 
men he crossed the Little Big Horn, and rode into the midst 
of six thousand well armed warriors. Sitting Bull and Crazy 
Horse had mustered every hostile band in Dakota, Montana 
and Wyoming. Even the Pawnees — hereditary foes of the 
Sioux-^ontributed 1500 warriors for a final struggle with 
the white man. Innumerable chiefs of fame led their warlike 
bands. Spotted Tail, American Horse, Porcupine, Crow King. 
Big Foot. Tohani, Short Bull, Kicking Bear, Gall, Young-Man- 
Afraid-Of-His-Horses, Waneta, Wapasha, Little Crow, Wamdi- 
tanka. Rain-In-The-Face. and many others of note assembled. 
Custer expected only the Pawnee contingent. His force was 
quickly surrounded, and nothing but battle and death re- 
mained. About 60 Indians were killed, and all of the soldiers. 
Raiu-ln-The-Face killed Custer, firing a rifle at close quarters. 
"Were any of the soldiers burnt or tortured?" was the inquiry 
afterwards. The invariable answer of Sioux braves was that 
"no prisoners were taken." This is undoubtedly true, for 
every soldier fought to the last, and many of the wounded 
shot themselves. The dead soldiers were scalped and muti- 
lated. In the case of Custer, his body was stripped, but was 
stretched out unscalped and unmutilated. He died sabre in 
hand, and was left where he fell. 



PROSE ADDENDA 359 

When the World War came the government decided that, 
although the Indian was not necessarily a citizen, nor quite 
so good as a white man, he was good enougli to go to Europe 
to fight, and so the "selective draft" was applied to him. 
To the credit of his race — a proud and warlike one — be it said 
that not an Indian slacker was found in the land. We had 
about 200,000 white sneaks, evaders, deserters, and conscien- 
tious objectors-to-being-hurt, but not an Indian tried to evade 
his duty. Every one on the list reported promptly, and those 
sent to France made the best of records and many of them 
won military decorations. Prom ten to fifteen thousand In- 
dians served with honor in Europe. (The exact number is on 
official record. ) Half the wars of the world could be avoided 
by the employment of one antidote — Justice, but Historian 
Gibbon says Justice is "only a theory." 

On May 20, 1921, at Cannonball, North Dakota, occurred 
the burial of Albert Grass, aged 21, last chief of the Dakota 
Sioux Indians. Several thousand Indians attended. He was 
killed on the firing line in France in 1918, and his body was 
returned by the government. On the evening of May 19th 
began the ancient rites and ceremonies accorded to a dead 
chief, which continued all night, mainly consisting of chant- 
ing and dancing. Then followed a religious ceremony at 
the local Catholic church. The body was then buried with 
military honors by the American Legion. The grave is on 
Holy Hill, a spot sacred to the Indians, for it was there that 
was held the last great Sun Dance of the Sioux nation. 



THE (IPvEAT IJIDDLE 

The gods are creations of the poets. — Cicero. 

All revelation is pure fiction.-^Xenophane!^. 

Future life is a myth. The only immortality is to live in 
history. — yapoleon. 

Not for our protection, but for their own vengeance, is the 
providence of the gods over us. — Tacitus. 

Nothing can be known, nothing can be learned. Nothing can 
be certain. — Avaxagoras. 

All religions are false, but all, perhaps, are useful. — Arabian 
sage. 

A personal Deity is inconceivable, Immortality unbelievable; 
Duty is supreme, imperative, unavoidable. — George Eliot. 

Cyrus the Great had a slight belief in immortality, but 
viewed the matter with grave doubt. 

Frederick the Great was an infidel in private and a church- 
man in public. 

Cambyses flogged and hanged the priests of Egypt. 

Alexander the Great pretended to be the son of Jupiter- 
Amnion, and Semiramis claimed to be the daughter of a 



360 SC).\(}S OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

goddess. The intimate relations known to exist between the 
Creator of the Universe and ex-Emperor Wilhelm need only 
a reference. 

-Mind, soul, spirit, are the same, and are part of the body, 
and perish with it. — Epicurus. 

That supreme good or evil, life I — Chnnenceau. 

Nature is merciless — knows nothing of justice. — HoU. 

Justice? It is only a theory. — Gibbon. 

The brotherhood of Man is a phrase, justice a formula; 
the Divine Code is illegible. — S^cn(ito>- ./. ./. Ingalls. 

The mystery of the cruelty of things. — Swinburne. 

Man is . Nature's great mistake. — Undericood. 

The mind or soul is not immortal. Death is a relief for all 
human woes, and beyond it tljiere is no place for sorrow or 
joy. — Caesar. 

Those who have given rich offerings to the priests during 
life, go to the highest heaven. — Tcdir hi/mn. 

When Nature had made other animals abject, and consigned 
them to pastures, she made Man alone upright. — Cicero. 

It becomes all men who desire to excel other animals, to 
strive to the utmost of their power. — Sallust. 

A deity that makes a world, and fills it with misery for all 
living creatures, brute and human, is not a benevolent god. 
If he is all powerful, and continues these miseries for ages, 
he is an evil being. If he is powerless to change this misery, 
he is not a god. — -Hindoo sage. 

The sad wail of the soul's lament over the defeat of human 
hopes to pierce the secret of the Omniscient. — R. W. Frazer. 

An ancient edict provided that if any base outsider (by 
stealth) listened to the Vedic hymns, his ears were to be filled 
with melted tin; if he was able to repeat a sacred hymn his 
tongue was to be torn out; if he even remembered the words 
of a hymn, he was to be torn to pieces. The kind of piety 
that sets men to "murdering one another for the love of 
God ! " 

If any deities exist they bother themselves very little about 
human affairs. — Radcliffe. 

To be eager for life, and to cling to it, is a sign of the 
greatest baseness and weakness. — PoU/bius. 

This is a Christian nation. — Xew political slogan. 

Mind does not exist apart from matter. — Tyndall. 

Thomas A. Edison has lost his faith in immortality .^ — 
Bibliral World. 

Good and Evil I trace to the same source, and Evil pre- 
dominates. — Gautama. 

The deities take no interest in human affairs. — Plato. 

That which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; as 
the one dieth so dieth the other; all go unto one place; all are 
of the dust and all turn to dust again. — King Solomon. 

".Man is an animal that wants to be a god" — which is much 
to his credit — a tribute to his gall. What he thinks about 
the Universe is not a matter of consequence. In due time he 
will be snuffed out, and his little world also. 



PROSE ADDENDA 361 

At death the soul has no more existence than it had before 
birth. Notions of immortality are mere delusions. The 
idea of a future existence is ridiculous. It spoils the greatest 
blessing of Nature— death. Absurd to suppose that the great 
head of all things pays any attention to human affairs. — 
Pliny. 

Not with philosophers and men of Science do we find 
sensual materialism, but in the palaces of ecclesiastical 
princes, and in those hypocrites, who, under the outward mask 
of pious worship of God, solely aim at hierarchical tyranny 
over, and material spoliation of their fellow men. Theologians 
seek only wealth, power, authority, dominion over the masses. 
There is no end to their clamor for money — it is their god. 
Men of Science seek only truth, and, in research, find intel- 
lectual enjoyment. — Ernst Hcinrirh Haeckel. 

The Pontifex Maximus offered the Christian convert the 
alternative of Diana or Christ, freedom or the wild beasts 
of the circus; the Bishop of Rome gave the Protestant a choice 
of transubstantiation or the stake and fire; the Protestant 
successor of Augustine tested Presbyterianism by breaking 
the nonconformist's leg in the iron boot; Presbyterianism 
drove dissenters to exile. Heretics chained to the stake, and 
nonconformists with ears nailed to the pillory, could not stop 
men from thinking. — Christian i^riencc Monitor. 

Life — a struggle for all, a defeat for most.-»-i/. ./. Laski. 

Immunity from suffering is good enough happiness for 
mortals. Man is a mortal, and perishes — utterly I — H. C. P. 

Collision with a wandering planet will burn the Earth to 
mist; or, the Earth will become a frozen desert like the moon; 
or, diminishing speed will cause the Earth to finally halt. 
It will then drop into the Sun — Science. 

In variances of opinion concerning matters unknown, or 
unknowable, men should strive to be tolerant, moderate, 
charitable, indulgent and indifferent. — P. 

Creeds and fairy stories appear to be necessary. Women 
and children must have them. To furnish them in abundance 
is profitable. — Bolingbrokc. 



MY MILITARY LAURELS 

[Headquarters Third Brigade, First Division, Seventeenth 
Army Corps, Vicksburg, March 9, 1864.] 

To the Governor of Iowa, 

Sir: — I would respectfully recommend to your favorable 
consideration, Clinton Parkhurst. He is desirous of obtaining 
a cadetship at West Point. While a member of the Sixteenth 
Iowa Infantry, (a regiment I had the honor of commanding 
as Colonel for a long time) he was prompt, cheerful and 
intelligent in the performance of his duties, either in camp, 



362 SOXCJS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

on the march or in battle. I hope, if possible, he may be 
appointed, as I am certain he would do credit to the State, 
his regiment and the country. 
[ am. sir, very respectfully. 

Your Obedient Servant, 

Al.KXA.NDKi; CHA.ArHKUS. 

Brigadier General of Volunteers 
[Gen. Chambers was a graduate of West Point, and a 
regular army officer. | 



THE SECESSION SNAKE STILL ALIVE 

Secession plots and ideas have been nursed and coddled 
so long in the Philippines, by Woodrow Wilson and his satel- 
lites, that it is not strange that talk of a new Southern 
Confederacy is beginning to be heard in the South. At Troy, 
in the State of Alabama, a marble monument has been reared 
that bears this inscription: 

Erected by Pink Parker 

In Honor of 

Wilkes Booth 

Who Killed Old Abe Lincoln 

There is a state normal school at Troy, and this memorial 
has doubtless been reared as an educational measure. 

When the State of Virginia put a statue of Lee under 
the dome of the national Capitol, we thought we could stand 
that. When Virginia gave to one of our greatest war vessels 
a costly silver service, every piece of which was stamped 
with a scowling image of .leff Davis — nothing very loud was 
said. When, however, they begin to build marble monuments 
down South in honor of the man "who killed old Abe Lincoln," 
our southern brethren are rubbing it in a little too hard. 
Ere long their political orators will begin to complain of 
"sectional feeling in the North," (as indicated by election 
returns), and in the East, and in the Great West, and in the 
Great Northwest, — and everywhere else in the country except- 
ing in the somewhat circumscribed area of the late unlamented 
Confederate States Of America. The Trojans of Alabama 
should "wave the bloody shirt" again, and put up a marble 
monument in honor of Henry Wirz, the martyred hero of 
Anderscnville. 

Congress has a duty to perform. Not to pull down the 
dirty monument in Alabama. Let it stand as long as it will. 
Congress should |)lace under the dome of the national Capitol 
three statues in honor of great Virginians who hated 
secession ! General Winfield Scott, General George H. Thomas, 
and General Sam Houston. Houston fought under Andrew 



PROSE ADDENDA 363 

Jackson; afterwards he added Texas to the Union; and to his 
dying day he opposed and hated secession — or, as Mr. Wilson 
terms it, "self determination." Wilson is not a Virginian — he's 
a Briton. At least, I consider him such. Let us have 
three more statues under the dome of the national Capitol — 
not one of them in honor of Secession. 

After ihe butcheries of Goliad and the Alamo, the fate of 
Texan indei:!endence was decided at the battle of San Jacinto, 
April 21, 1836. Behind heavy breastworks defended by ar- 
tillery. Santa Ana awaited attack with from 2,.500 to ?.,000 
Mexicans. Gen. Houston stormed the Mexican works with a 
force of 750 Texans. Houston was dangerously wounded; 
9 of his men were killed and 16 were wounded. The Mexicans 
lost 632 men killed and wounded, and 730 more were captured, 
Santa Ana included. Out of this brilliant victory sprung the 
Texan Republic. On July 26, 1863 — neglected, very poor; 
broken in spirits at the apparent disruption of the American 
Union, and suffering from wounds received in two wars. Gen. 
Houston died on his little farm near Galveston Bay, Texas, at 
the age of 71. His name deserves to be held in perpetual 
honor — if that is any comfort to heroes gone. Let us place 
a statue of him under the dome of the national Capitol. 



HOW thp: avatePv cxmk dowx at 

LODORE 

"You'll never miss the water till the well runs dry." 

Of innumerable cases, consider these — simply as samples: 

During the World War spruce timber operations on the 
northwest Pacific coast consumed hundreds of millions of 
dollars, and the government obtained no benefit whatever. The 
money was simply tossed away to robbers. 

Fifteen hundred million dollars were squandered on sec- 
tional "cantonments' "in the southern states, after which 
the buildings were burnt, torn down or given away. 

Fraudulent coal contracts, two years after the war ended, 
robbed the government of from twenty to thirty million 
dollars. 

Two million and nine hundred thousand dollars went for 
electrical machinery and electrical lines that were never used 
an hour, and which were sold to "interested parties" for 
$81,000. 

The sum of $116,000,000 was paid for poison gas that was 
never made. 

The colossal airplane robbery, an aifair almost incredible, 
cost two billions of dollars, and made two thousand million- 
aires. 

Three nitrate plants that cost $120,000,000 never made 



364 SONC^S OF A MAN" WHO FAILED 

a pound of nitrates, and the plants were sold for iiractically 
nothing. 

Old Hickory powder plant at Nashville, Tennessee, cost 
ninety million dollars ,and never made a pound of powder. 
Sold for three and a half million dollars. The Japs may 
well call Uncle Sam "a fatuous booby with plenty of money 
and no brains." He is worse than that — he helps people 
rob him. 

A powder plant at Xitro. West Virginia, that cost sixty 
million dollars, never made a pound of powder, and was "sold" 
for $800,000. Included in the "sale" (without charge) was 
certain "personal property" that experts valued at ten 
million dollars. 

On "port terminals" that were never used, located "down 
South," the sum of $127,000,000 was spent. 

The totally fictitious "ordnance program" cost Four Billions 
Of Dollars, and produced nothing but a brigade of million- 
aires. 

All this is eloquent of crime, misrule and political ruin. 
Never in human history is found another such picture of 
criminal waste. 

Motor trucks that cost millions of dollars, were left to rust 
and rot, along the Mexican boundary line. 

Vast warlike stores at Vladivostok were sold to Japan for 
a song, "to save expense of removal to Manila," and at a time 
when Japan was threatening us with war. 

In January last it became known that $40,000,000 of "relief 
money" had been used in waging unauthorized war against 
Russia, and that unknown large sums of Red Cross money 
had been used in the same way. 

In February, Secretary Houston admitted to Congress that, 
by Wilson's order, he had "loaned" the Slovakian "govern- 
ment" $14,330,000. 

To keep Slovakia out of war, Wilson had previously shipped 
munitions valued at $13,500,000. The allies intercepted the 
shii)ment, and, without payment, kept the munitions. No 
wonder the Europeans call us "a nation of chumps," and call 
our country "the world's Christmas tree." In addition, an- 
other mushroom government obtained enormous stores of 
munitions and rations, and was allowed to "pay" for the same 
with $.50,000,000 in "money" not worth the paper it was 
printed on. Thus did Mr. Wilson play "Lord Bountiful" and 
"Big Brother to the World" — not with his own cash, but with 
treasure that future generations will have to sweat and toil 
for. On February 27th Secretary Houston confessed to a 
congressional committee that he and Mr. Wilson had "loaned" 
$200,000,000 to the Kerensky government of Russia, a govern- 
ment now defunct. As they had no authority to take Two 
Hundred Million Dollars from the United States Treasury, 
and give it away, they should be held accountable, person- 
ally, and in their private fort\ines. 

An expert estimates that certain persons, vaguely referred 



PROSE ADDENDA 365 

to as "the ship-builders," defrauded the government out of 
§500,000,000— "and possibly more." 

Nero's burning of Rome never cost ten thousand million 
dollars — the amount of indebtedness France has been asking 
us to "cancel," kindly aided in the matter by many home 
"statesmen." 

As a parting shot from the Grand Autocracy, in May, 1921, 
Congress learned that a trifling bill of Four Hundred Million 
Dollars would have to be paid — some of Woodrow's unauthor- 
ized outlays entitled "emergency expenditures." What they 
were it was considered not worth while to find out. 

A letter written at Paris at the close of the World War 
gives an incomplete reference to affairs abroad. The writer 
says: 

"Astounding revelations of graft and fraud, mounting into 
millions, in the supplies shipped to the American expeditionary 
force during the war, have just been made. At one depot 
there was a full mile of piled-up cases marked "bottles of ink," 
or "canned food." Only the top layer of each box consisted 
of full boxes or cans; the rest were empty. Hundreds of 
thousands of pairs of "woolen" underclothes were of the poor- 
est quality of cotton, while a vast number of cases marked 
as containing clothing, were either empty, or were filled with 
a jumble of all kinds of useless material in a moldy condition. 
At another depot there were five miles of "military supplies" 
that not only included beds, munitions, jams and gasoline, but 
also more than fifty thousand cases of baby underwear, baby 
socks and baby bonnets. At still another depot 4,5,000 new 
automobiles were destroyed by fire, to make room for other 
automobiles that were then en route across the ocean — 
although the war was over. The depot at Gievres, which 
covers a space of more than one-third the area of Paris, is 
packed and piled with heterogeneous supplies of every sort, 
that are rusting and spoiling." 

An immense quantity of military foods and rations, that 
cost seventeen hundred million dollars, was sold to the French 
government (on credit) for one hundred and fifty million 
dollars. This food was then shipped to the United States and 
sold at a profit of more than a billion dollars above purchase 
price. Camp Funston, Kansas, cost more than $15,000,000. 
In December, 1920, Baker (Sec. of War) ordered the post 
dismantled and abandoned, the buildings torn down and all 
materials hastily sold for "what they would bring." In the 
same week he asked Congress for $50,000,000 with which 
to merely begin carrying out his policy of "housing" the home- 
less U. S. Army. Experts who looked over his elaborate plans 
declared to a congressional committee that, to carry out the 
plans, would cost $800,000,000. The Inspector-General of the 
Army officially reported that while one department of the 
government was selling "surplus cement" to a civilian for $1 
per ton, another department of the government was buying 
it back at $6.00 per ton. The cement was not moved — only 



366 SC)\(;S OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

the money changed hands. The General's report failed to 
stop the traffic. The reign of Boss Tweed and his sattelites at 
New York City, after the Civil War, was mild and moderate 
compared to the fierce saturnalia at Washington City. 

Lotiis XIV, "the Grand Monarch. "^squandered public money 
by millions. Louis XVI went to the guillotine for it. Under 
the Autocratic regime of our "free republic" money has been 
squandered and stolen by billions — not money immediately 
raised by taxation, but borrowed at liberal interest, with re- 
payment left to generations unborn. Let us hope the crimes 
of the present era will not be followed by scaffolds and 
executions in the future. "I will repay, saith, the Lord." 

While "that stricken man," that "wheel chair invalid" was 
hidden away in the innermost recesses of the White House, 
invisible and inaccessible to the vulgar gaze — not even to the 
highest senators — and was ostensibly under the watchful care 
of a Rear Admiral surgeon of the Xavy, he seems to have 
been pretty busy — to say the least. • 

John Churchill, victor at Blenheim, first Duke of Marl- 
borough, was famous for good humor. News of mishaps, 
blunders of subordinates, ill fortune, disarrangement of plans, 
sudden energy of the foe — only brought his iiatient smile. 
Nothing disturbed his serenity. Like Cjesar, he had the genius 
of good nature. Let us try to imitate him, for it is hard for 
the American citizen to read his daily paper and be anything 
but a grouch. Wake up. ""Assume a virtue if you have 
it not." Let us be "cheerful idiots." 



THE CONFEDERACY AND THE INDIANS 

Up to the breaking out of the Civil War, the only Indian 
policy the United States had was based on three maxims: 
"Might is right," a treaty with Indians is "only a scrap of 
paper," and "the only good Indian is a dead one." These 
maxims, never officially promulgated, were steadily acted on — 
put in actual practice. The culmination was in some kind 
of a massacre. Sometimes whites were massacred and some- 
times Indians. A massacre was always provided for. It 
w^as part of the Indian policy of "our Christian nation." Early 
in the history of Illinois or Indiana, there was a massacre 
of peaceful Indians, by whites. In due time the massacre of 
the soldiers of Fort Dearborn (now Chicago) came to pass. 
Without books of reference at hand I would not try to give 
a list of such occurrences. The only shadow of excuse we 
can offer for lack of faith in dealing with the red man, 
is in the irrepressible and unavoidable conflict of civilization 
and savagery. The Indian is too polite or too unsophisticated 
to say that the pale face is a liar, but phrases it more gently, 
and complains that "the white man does not do as he says." 



PROSE A i:) DEN DA 367 

King David said in his wrath, "All men are liars. " The 
average Indian got to believe that all white men were, any- 
how. The Black Hawk war came to pass because the govern- 
ment invited many leading chiefs to a conference; plied them 
with liquor, pleased them with baubles, and when they were 
half drunk — or drunk entirely — persuaded them to barter 
away an empire of the richest agricultural lands in the world, 
for simply nothing. Black Hawk rebelled at such a trans- 
action. At the age of 20 he had been a famous war cliief, 
afterward led 500 warriors to join Tecumseh. At the age of 
60, with a small following, he precipitated a hopeless but a 
dangerous war. No man — black, white or red, can be blamed 
for fighting to hold the soil he was born on. He has my 
sympathy at least. My mother often saw Black Hawk, and it 
was to please her that I once wrote and published a military 
novel based on his last, and desperate campaign. 

When the Civil War had opened in earnest the Sioux 
nation had bitter grievances against the government by reason 
of violated treaties — grossly violated ones. When the Sioux 
invasion of Minnesota occurred in 1862, it was generally 
believed that the Confederate government had instigated 
the bloody attack, but there was no direct proof of this. 
There was nothing strange in the supposition. In colonial 
times the French incited Indians to attack English settle- 
ments, and aided them with arms, ammunition and even 
with military forces. (Civilized man is still a savage lightly 
vaneered over). In the Revolutionary War, England aided 
and encouraged Indians to assail the continental frontiei-s, 
and repeated the policy in the war of 1812. So it was nothing 
new or strange to suppose that the Confederacy was using a 
similar policy. Concerning the issues of the Civil War a 
great division of sentiment prevailed among the Indians. 
Some tribes proved loyal to the government. Other tribes took 
sides with the Confederacy. In the northern Mississippi 
campaign I saw a Union reginient that was almost entirely 
composed of Wisconsin Indians, dressed and trained like 
ourselves. The Indians of western Arkansas took up arms 
for the South, as did a very large part of the Indians in what 
is now Oklahoma. At Hominy Creek, Oklahoma, a battle of 
much importance was fought between rival forces of Indians, 
one side fighting for the government and the other for the 
South. Each side arrayed over a thousand warriors, and I 
don't think there was a white man there. The contest was 
bloody and indecisive, but proved decisive in one way. No 
further attempt was made by southern Indians to reach the 
border line of Kansas. Along that border stretched the 
villages of the Osages, (a branch of the Sioux nation). Osage 
tribal affairs have been conducted with singular wisdom, for 
a hundred years at least, and the Osages are now the richest 
class of people in Oklahoma. Their pockets are stuffed with 
money arising from annuities from the sale of lands to the 
government; by royalties from oil wells, and by rentals of 



368 SONCS OF A MAN W TI O FAILED 

lands to whites, the lands being mainly held by the tribe in 
community fashion. They own a whole rich county there. 

At the outbreak of the Civil War the Osages promptly 
declared for the government, and kept close watch and ward 
along the Kansas border, and also held at bay the numerous 
hostiles that swarmed over the Plains. Some time in the 
early part of the war occurred a remarkable incident that 
may be on official record. At a point on the prairies some- 
where between the present towns of Chetopa and Cherryvale, 
an Osage scouting party led by a chief, intercepted a party 
of white men, twenty or thirty in number, well armed and 
well mounted. An explanation was required of the strangers, 
but none was given. The chief then requested the whites 
to accompany him to Humboldt, where they could make their 
explanations to the white military commandant. This was 
refused and the white leader started to ride on, but the chief 
wheeled liis horse in front of the column to bar further 
progress. The white leader shot the chief dead; the other 
Indians scattered and disappeared at a gallop, and the white 
men rode on westward. In about an hour a volley of rifle 
balls emptied many saddles, and a strong force of Indians 
was found to be in hot pursuit. The white men hastily thr^w 
away their baggage, and broke into a wild gallop for the heavy 
timber that skirted the Verdigree river a few miles away. 
There the Osages hemmed them in, killed the last one of 
them, stripped their bodies, and scalped and beheaded them. 
In searching their clothing many strange looking official 
papers were found, which the Indians, of course, could not 
read or understand. Big Hill Joe, the chief, took careful 
charge of these, and merely sent off a scout to Humboldt with 
intelligence that a lot of bad white men had been killed. 
A company of cavalry was immediately sent to invefti^ato. 
Its commander called for any papers that might have been 
found, and Joe handed him the papers, which disclosed these 
facts: The party consisted of a Confederate colonel, live or 
six Confederate officers, and an escort of soldiers. The party 
had started from I.,ittle Rock, Arkansas, and was bound for 
the western plains bearing official credentials to Red Cloud, 
Sitting Bull, and other leading hostile chiefs, and promise of 
arms, munitions, money and supplies for a war along the 
entire northern frontier. The captured arms and horses went 
to the Osages as spoils of war; the mutilated heads and bodies 
were gathered up and buried; the papers, documents and 
credentials reached the commandant at Humboldt, and un- 
doubtedly went to Washington City. An attempt was made 
by Texan troops to pass through New Mexico, capture Denver, 
and form a junction with the warlike hostiles on the Plains. 
Kit Carson and other frontier leaders of note raised a force 
of volunteers and met the invaders in the Glorietta Mountains, 
where a tierce battle was fought. Neither side could claim a 
victory, but the Texans found it necessary to abandon their 
plan and hastily retreat homeward. 



PROSE ADDENDA 369 

gexp:ral xotp:s 

LOST EMPIRES 

A civilization world-wide may collapse, disappear, and be 
totally forgotten. Any social or political organization con- 
tains the seeds of its own destruction. The decadence of men, 
the degeneration of tribes and peoples; change, calamities, 
false theories, disastrous wars on a gigantic scale, may bring 
the destruction of nations and the ruin of the last vestige of 
civilization. The buried cities of Central America admonish 
us. Thebes reigned a thousand years and is now a stretch 
of desert sand. The most probable cause of ultimate ruin to 
civilization lies in some vast convulsion of Nature. The 
earth's surface is unstable; it has changed many times and 
will change again. After such a cataclysm the remnant of 
mankind, in consternation and despair, may revert to savag- 
ery, or, even to mere animal existence. After a long age 
of gloom, a commencement will be made again, if our planet 
remains inhabitable. These thoughts are based on Science, 
tradition, legend, architectural ruins, and strong probability. 
Agassiz says: "America is the first born among the conti- 
nents. Hers was the first dry land lifted out of the waters." 
It is only reasonable to believe that the first civilizations of 
the world arose, flourished and passed away in the American 
tropics. In ascribing the ruins of Central America to a race 
of Phoenician origin, I merely adopted the views of several 
American writers. The opinions of Agassiz are entitled to 
greater weight. This would ascribe the early civilizations 
of Central America to a native American race, and make 
them the first civilizations of Man, flourishing in glory be- 
fore the Nile valley was populated. One era of greatness 
and subsequent ruin must have followed another, stretching 
far back through the corridors of Time. The present remains 
are of the latest period, but ante-date the building of the 
Pyramids. The continent of Atlantis reached most of the 
way across from the West Indies to northern Africa, and 
communication between the hemispheres must have been in- 
cessant. 

THE :march of coroxado 

Coronado and his knights were the first men of the white 
race to set foot on the prairies of Kansas and Nebraska. The 
expedition of these intrepid men started from a western 
port of aiexlco, moved northwestward through Sonora, passed 
eastward through the burning deserts of Arizona and New 
Mexico, crossed the Rio Grande river, met and defeated a 
large army of half-civillzed Indians, discovered the buffalo, 
and moving eastward and northward, reached the vernal plains 
of Kansas and Nebraska. The march consumed two years, and 
a Pawnee chief visited the Spanish conquestador. Thus was 
found a future home for the pusillanimousf prairie Pacifist. 

24 



370 SONGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

An official at Washington City discredits the statement of 
Coronado that he passed the 40th parallel of latitude. Citing 
numerous authorities, the British encyclopedia declares that 
Coronado "penetrated at least to what is now central Kansas," 
and pronounces his expedition "the most remarkable in Amer- 
ican discovery." The encyclopedia issued by the "Scientific 
American" says Coronado started from Culican, on the Pacific 
coast (April, 1540), and reached the plains of Kansas and 
Nebraska. Coronado should not be deprived of his well 
earned laurels without satisfactory reasons. Xo such reasons 
are apparent. The Spaniards crossed unknown oceans and 
proved the most skillful of navigators. In preparing to cross 
unknown limitless deserts, Coronado must have carried good 
observation instruments wuth him. Hence, when he says he 
crossed the 40th parallel, we can do nothing else than believe 
him. This placed him in Kansas and Nebraska. All recog- 
nized authorities concede that he crossed the 40th Parallel, 
and there is no reason for disputing the fact, and no benefit 
results from so doing. 

THE PEl).V(i()(U;E's DHE.VM 

Of the American Idiots the Grand Autocracy demanded 
250,000 sailors and marines for the Xavy; 913 million dollars 
for "the greatest war fleet in the world"; a standing army in 
time of peace of 576,000 soldiers; a draft Act to include every 
able-bodied young man in the country of the age of 18; a 
second Act "for war time" that would draft every able-bodied 
man in the country between the ages of 18 and 45. These 
Acts, it was computed, would mobilize an American army of 
more than Twenty Million Men. Strange preparations for 
universal peace! With the League of Xations behind it, such 
an armament would have meant the mastery of the world. 

The bait — Wilson, master of the world. 

The purpose — to unload the bonded debts of the world on 
the backs of the American Idiots, and, to make this country 
a vassal dependency of Europe. 

Could greed or selfish, silly vanity be greater? Brain 
storms! Senile dementia! "What fools these mortals be." 

:maxi.aiilian axi) caklotta 

The passage in this volume under the above heading is 
from "Sun Worship Shores," lost in San Francisco's burning. 
In 1874, at Acapulco, Mexico, 1 saw cannons lying in the 
ditches of a fort, where they had been thrown by Maxi- 
milian's triumphant Frenchmen, after storming the Mexican 
lines. For some reason the Mexicans had never removed 
them. Sitting in the shade I wrote a passage for the long 
historical and descriptive poem I was then engaged on. Major 
Millen, an Irish soldier of fortune who had served in Maxi- 
milian's army, told me that the march of the French troops 
through Mexico was only a merry promenade. The with- 



PROSE ADDENDA 371 

drawal of the French, on the demand of the American Secre- 
tary of State, William H. Seward, sealed the fate of Maxi- 
milian. He was soon afterwards dethroned, tried and shot. 
Carlotta went insane. 

The poetical passage referred to was "lifted" from an 
unpublished manuscript of mine, and converted into prose, 
by an "eminent historian," and was sold by him to a great 
newspaper syndicate. Allusions to the battle of Gettysburg 
were skillfully substituted for my references and reflections 
on the Atlanta campaign, and some weak military doggerel 
was attempted. Other portions of "Sun Worship Shores" re- 
ceived attention from this gentleman with a "name." Then 
the entire poem was burnt in the earthquake. Some of it I 
recalled by memory, and some I reclaimed from faded news- 
paper files. 

Jor/.S WAR HORSE 

From old time the War Horse has deserved and received 
admiration. His pride, fidelity and courage, in the midst of 
the most terrifying scenes, have won the plaudits of soldiers. 
Nowhere is he better portrayed than in the Book of Job. 
"Hast thou given the horse strengtli? 

Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? 

Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? 

The glory of his nostrils is terrible. 

He paweth in the valley, rejoices in his strength; 

He goeth on to meet the armed men. 

He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted. 

Neither turneth he back from the sword. 

The quiver rattleth against him. 

The glittering spear and the shield. 

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage. 

Neither believeth he that it is the sound of the 
trumpet ; 

He saith among the trumpets. Ha! Ha! 

And he smelleth the battle afar off. 

The thunder of the captains and the shouting." 

THi: ri/n>iATE thinc; ix booze 

George Washington took a glass of rum every morning be- 
fore breakfast; Napoleon was fond of punch, but quit its use 
because it made his nose red; Burns drank the strongest 
usquebaugh he could find, and believed it to be a necessary 
of life; Byron took gin and water; Poe killed himself with 
Baltimore whiskey; Edwin Booth, the finest comedian and 
tragedian this country ever had, and whom I often saw ani 
admired, had periodical spells of dipsomania, but in his later 
years led a life of total abstinence. Shakespeare died from 
a bi"' rhrnk. and so did the great Macedonian, Alexander: 
John L. Sullivan drank everything and anything in sight, 
but finally quit booze and passed his latter days in sobriety; 
sweet poet Collins died in a mad house, without alcoholic aid; 



372 SON'CJS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 

Schiller drank Rhine wine with enthusiasm; had Dante 
boozed with moderation, he might have written on more 
cheerful topics; Coleridge went to wreck with opium; Guy 
de Maupassant went mad from absinthe; Henry Sienkewicz 
died in a crazy house from all sorts of dope; and so on down 
the list. A boozofighter in search of "the real thing," should 
tackle marihuana. Compared to it cocaine is a mild sedative, 
and deodorized wood alcohol a gentle tonic. When a Mexican 
is bored with ennui, he smokes the dry leaves of marihuana, 
or makes a brew out of the weed. The first effect is seductive. 
Afterwards come tigers, lions, boa constrictors, green giraffes, 
elephants with four tails apiece, devils and hideous monsters. 
Harmless blue monkeys are nothing to the menagerie let . 
loose by marihuana. Further indulgence i)ersisted in, pro- 
duces permanent madness. The peons of Sonora make fire- 
water out of a kind of cactus, and call it Tequila. It is color- 
less but powerful. You can get as drunk as a lord on it. 
The Yaquis make a devil's brew from tolvache weed. Every- 
where, even in the desert, Man has ready at hand, the ma- 
terials for getting himself in trouble. Mother Nature provides 
with a lavish hand. There is alcohol and poison in almost 
everything. When our native land is really dry — arid — with 
no mistake about it, booze-fighters can go into Mexico 
and raise gardens of cacti With other poisons utilized there, 
a man can have his own dis»tillery, and be always happy. 

The safer plan is to shuo the booze, nor listen to the siren 
songs of the nymphs of the Lurleiberg. 

THE :MA(Ji5DONIAX PL.\X 

Persian monarchs often bought the public men of early 
Greece. Even the great Themistocles became an honored 
vassal at the Persian ci>jrt, though mainly to escape his 
Grecian enemies. When Philip of Macedon was plotting the 
overthrow of freedom in Greece, his custom was to influence 
public men with cash. If an ambassador went to a doubtful 
city or state, the royal emissary was i)receded by a mule 
loaded with gold. Foreign governments and great foreign 
interests, have found a weakness in the American political 
fabric. They purchase the secret services of men of wide 
repute, and thus sway national legislation, or momentous 
foreign policies. Bribes are given, not always to public 
officials, but often to persons who have power to control 
public officials. In some cases the officials themselves are 
directly bribed— by the promise of place, power, opportunities 
of enrichment, and, not unfrequently, with spot cash. This 
cannot be clearly shown, in most cases. The crime is too 
well concealed. We can only judge by public results. On the 
other hand, officials are often domineered over by special 
classes, insolent and tumultuous in demands, and are forced 
to support ruinous legislation by threats of political extinc- 
tion if they refuse. (Many of our congressmen die poor.) 
These unpleasant facts suggest that our republic may be on 



PROSE ADDExNDA 373 

the down grade, a route taken by every republic that ever 
existed. 

GAVRIIA) PRIXZEP 

On June 28th, 1914, at Sarajevo, caiJital of Bosnia, a tragedy 
occurred that precipitated the World War. Archduke Francis 
Ferdinand, Crown Prince of Austria-Hungary, and his mor- 
ganatic wife, Sophia Chotek, Duchess of Hohenberg, came on 
a conciliatory visit to Sarajevo. As they rode on public 
parade, a bomb was thrown at them. The prince 
warded it off with his arm. It exploded some dis- 
tance from him, wounding six persons. In the afternoon, as 
the imperial pair rode out again, Gavrilo Prinzep, 19 years 
of age, a Servian student, opened fire on them with a magazine 
revolver that discharged explosive bullets, and killed both 
of them. The first shot struck the lady in the abdomen; 
the second shot struck the Prince's neck. In both cases death 
quickly followed. Prinzep died on April 30th, 1918, in a 
fortress near Prague, of tuberculosis caused by harsh im- 
prisonment. Other conspirators received punishment. Two 
received life imprisonment, and four were hanged. 

Prince Ferdinand was not the son of Francis Joseph, but 
his nephew. He was an unattractive person — a religious 
fanatic with despotic inclinations. Save for political possi- 
bilities, his death was unlamented in Austria. People and 
nobles were glad he was dead. 

BRITISH TROOl'S IX XICARAGUA 

The landing of eight hundred British soldiers on the island 
of Corinto, on the western coast of Nicaragua, in 1895, caused 
much excitement in the United States, and also in Central 
America. An infringement of the Monroe Doctrine was 
thought to be intended. Happily this proved not to be the 
case. England is our greatest commercial rival, our chief 
marine competitor, and, possibly, might be our naval enemy 
on the high seas. To a great extent the friendship of 
nations is based on self-interest. Fair treatment on both 
sides is necessary, with a strict observance of simple justice 
and right. 

Senator Jones of Washington declares: "This nation is 
confronted with a comprehensive conspiracy to drive Amer- 
ican ships from the seas, and divert the bulk of our exports 
to British bottoms." For fifty years Congress has been con- 
trolled by the trans-Atlantic steamship lines, which partially 
explains why it is so difficult to check foreign immigration^ 
an evil that should be ended entirely. We should especially 
exclude Japs, and the scum of Asia Minor. 

S():\IE OTHER TROUBLES 

A poem of mine entitled "Our Message of Peace" fore- 
shadowed a war in China, that afterwards came — and also the 
armed intervention of the western powers. In August, 1895, 



374 SONGS OF A MAX WHO FAILED 

T sent this rhyme to "Puck," at New York City. On September 
25th "Puck" printed a brief imitation of the poem — just 
enough to base a cartoon on — and had a double-page cartoon 
illustrating the subject. I wrote, demanding pay for the 
poem. H. L. Wilson, "Associate Editor," replied that "the 
author of the verses you mention, who is ]\Ir. R. L. Cardell, 
never saW' your poem, nor did the devisers of the cartoon 
ever see it." This reply I preserved, lest iMr. Cardell should 
some time assert I had basely counterfeited his somewhat 
debilitated verse. I have in this volume a brief complaint 
about "The Demon If." Recently, by a newspaper allusion, I 
find that IMr. Kipling has written something about "If." What 
lie wrote I don't know, and am too busy to find out. Also, I 
have a short rhyme concerning a rich man's epitaph, entitled 
"His Only Wealth." Seven or eight years after I wrote it I 
found that the same epitaph had received attention from John 
G. Saxe a generation ago. With these explanations I print 
my own ditties. 

ILlSTOinCAI. 

When Sardanapahis made a bonfire of his palace and his 
wealth, it is computed that gold, silver, gems, jewels and 
precious stones vanished to the value of forty billions of dol- 
lars. His wives and concubines perished with him. There 
was little left for the enemy to "amortize." 

On March 1, 1920, a telegram from Paris confirmed reports 
that the coffin and dust of Hernando Cortez had been found in 
the vault of the Church of Jesus, in the City of Mexico. 

Prof. Strong, of Harvard, puts the total cost of the World 
War, to all participants, at about 348,000 Million Dollars. 

Commander Bainbridge, of the American Navy, places the 
loss of the Germans in the World War as follows: Killed in 
battle, 1,531,148; missing, 991,340; wounded, 4,211,481; died of 
disease, 155,013. Total, 6,888,982. 

In time of war multitudes of camp followers should be 
rigidly excluded from armies, especially those who graft in the 
name of Charity, Humanity and Religion. This would conduce 
to discipline, efficiency and comfort, and lead to victorious re- 
sults in battle. Soul saving should be attended to in time of 
peace. 

In his effort to disarm the world, the American Pacifist 
always stops with the United States, leaving John Bull, the 
wily Jap, and the whole of Europe armed to the teeth. A 
little foreign gold, now and then, explains the mystery. 

Up to June 3, 1921, bills had been introduced into the 
legislatures of twenty states for limiting the shortness of 
female skirts, the lowness of necks; and the thinness of ma- 
terials for women's gowns and accessories. Is this sumptuous 
or sumptuary legislation? What a solemn thing it is to be 
a legislative member nowadays. It's no job for an indiscreet 
young man. 

The Plan of the League Of Nations was devised by the 
diplomatic plotters of the British Empire, and by a conclave 



PROSE ADDENDA 375 

of European Shylocks who are loaded down with the worthless 
bonds of bankrupt nations. These they wish to dump on 
the American people. The Constitution and the details of the 
new Supreme Imperial Government were written out by 
General Jan Christian Smuts, Premier of South Africa. 
Americans must preserve the independence of their country. 
It took Washington seven or eight years to establish it. An- 
other revolutionary war may become necessary to free us 
from European bondage. We cannot be too jealously watchful. 
"Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty." "Freedom comes in 
with drums and trumpets; then vanishes away we know not 
where." Money is a tremendous power, for good or evil, and 
is always busy. 

IN mp:moriam 

At the close of the Civil War, on the street at Richmond, 
Virginia, a I'nion soldier picked up a Confederate five-dollar 
bill on which some follower of the Lost Cause had written 
these lines: 
Representing nothing on God's earth now, and naught in the 

waters below it, 
As a pledge of a nation that is dead and gone, keep it, dear 

friend, and show it — 
Show it to those who will lend an ear to the tale that this 

paper cannot tell, 
Of liberty born of a patriot's dream, of the storm-cradled 

nation that fell. 
Too. poor to possess the precious ores, and too much of a 

stranger to borrow, 
We issued to-day our promise to pay, and hoped to redeem 

on the morrow. 
The days rolled on, and weeks became years, but our coffers 

were empty still. 
Coin was so rare that our treasury quaked if a dollar should 

drop in the till. 
But the faith that was in us was strong indeed, and our 

poverty well discerned. 
And these little checks represented the pay that our poor 

volunteers had earned. 
They knew it had hardly a value in gold, yet as gold our 

soldiers received it; 
It gazed in their eyes with a promise to pay, and each patriot' 

soldier believed it. 
But our boys thought little of price, or of pay, or of bills that 

were then overdue, 
We knew if it brought us our bread to-day it was the best 

our poor country could do. 
Keep it, for it tells our history o'er, from the birth of its 

dream to the last; 
Modest, and born of the angel Hope, like the hope of success, 

it passed. 



SONGS OF A MAN WHO FAILED 



iiANisiiix<; w'\n 

In his remarkable poem "Darkness," Byron pictures the 
last two men of the human race. To obtain temporary light 
they carefully gather up what shreds of fuel remain, and 
kindle a blaze. Looking on one another's faces they see that 
they are enemies, "and shriek and die." The only way to 
permanently banish war is to exterminate the human race — 
a job Mother .Nature will attend to when she gets a good 
ready. Over-population means War. We now travel in that 
direction fast. "Colorado, population in 1900, 539,700; in 1910, 
799,024; in 1920, 9:!9,629." Statistics of any part of the 
United States will point the same gloomy moral, and often 
more distinctly. Increase of population is no longer desir- 
able. It will prove an evil soon and not a benefit. The over- 
plus of other countries should no longer be allowed to pour 
into this land. Let us not think of ourselves entirely, but 
save a little room for the next generation. This is not 
"everybody's country" — it is ours. Let us keep it. 

"TIIK RICHEST PRESIDENT THAT K\ VAl LEFT 
THE WIHTE HOI'SE"' 

On the 26th of December last a telegram was sent out from 
Washington City by the Associated Press, (making nearly p 
column of fine type), which announced that Mr. Wilson would 
be "the richest President that ever left the White House." 
The telegram explained the matter. It was, in the main, 
because of his great frugality and fine management, and be- 
cause of the large sale of books he wrote long ago. Just 
how rich he is few persons know. When he passes hence 
and his ample estate is portioned out, the general public 
may not then know. It is unpleasant to reflect that it was 
during the years that the waste of public money was most 
"appalling" that he became "the richest President that ever 
left the White House." In playing his noble part of "Big 
Brother to the World," he also seems to have been a pretty 
good brother to himself— a proof of rare intellectual powers. 

Fin is 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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